The whole situation strikes a raw nerve with Bronn.
There are a lot more orphans and other unfortunate strays than there are witches - or demons. And usually, those who rat them out attempt to milk them for what they're worth, and then rat them out anyway.
Bronn knows how that feels. Fifteen to twenty years ago, that was him.
"Lucky for you we didn't find her, John", he snarls at the back of the man in the barn, quietly enough that John doesn't her him, but with a fierceness that makes the people around him take a step back.
Temper, Bronn, temper, Bronn thinks to himself, I'm lucky it's dark and I'm still wearing the cloak. My eyes are probably red through and through right now.
"Alright, men, let's go have a look at the cows", Bronn calls to the others. He will count the number of dead cows, look at their wounds and try to figure out if it was claw, sword, or knife that caused them.