The clamor both within and without ceased as if by magic. The rustlers were consumed with a burning desire to know what it all meant. On the other hand, Scotty and the rest of the punchers knew that their employer wished to give the leader of the rustlers warning.
“Who calls me?” came from within; and Bob knew that it was the chief rustler who spoke, although bitter anger filled his voice.
“This is Colonel Haywood, Mendoza; you know me!” continued the stockman.
“So you have come to reclaim your strays, is that it, Colonel Haywood?” mocked the Mexican; “well, they are all safe, but a few heifers that grew dizzy climbing along the trail, and dropped over. But you will never take them out of this valley.”
“We’re going to make a big try for it, just as soon as daylight comes; and mark my words, Mendoza, the men who try to oppose us are going to get hurt,” the stockman continued, sternly.
“Wait and see who laughs last,” mocked the other. “You think you’ve got us shut up here like rats in a trap. Perhaps you mean to keep guard over us until the last of the steers has been safely run out of the hills; those belonging to us as well as your own?”
“You are good at guessing, Mendoza,” replied the stockman; “for that is exactly what we plan to do.”
“And you think we will tamely stay in here while you are robbing us of our property, we who are armed, and do not know the meaning of the word fear? Senor, you have another guess coming!” continued the man behind the door.
“All the same,” Colonel Haywood went on, sternly; “not one of your men will dare show his face outside that cabin, until those I leave here on guard hear the signal that we have reached the plain with the herd. They have orders to shoot, Mendoza, and to make every bullet count. It is a long score they have to settle with you; and if you are wise you will hesitate to give them the chance they have been waiting for these many moons.”
“I don’t like the sound of that laugh,” Bob said to Frank, as the two stood where no stray shot from the besieged cabin might reach them; “somehow it makes me think of a hyena I once saw at a circus. When he howled it sent the cold creeps up and down my back.”
“Same here,” admitted Frank. “They say Mendoza is as sly as any fox that ever crept into a hen house, and carried off a fat prize, with all sorts of traps set to catch him. Somehow I just can’t get rid of the notion that while we seem to have him in a pickle right now, he’s got a string he means to pull, that’s going to surprise us disagreeably.”