Molly McDonald

Hamlin thrust his glove into his belt, drew forth his revolver, and gripped its stock with bare hand. This odd, hidden dwelling might be deserted, a mere empty shack, but he could not disconnect it in his mind from that murderous attack made upon their little party two hours before. Why was it here in the heart of this desert? Why built with such evident intent of concealment? But for what had occurred on the plateau above, his suspicions would never have been aroused. This was already becoming a cattle country; adventurous Texans, seeking free range and abundant water, had advanced along all these prominent streams with their grazing herds of long-horns. Little by little they had gained precarious foothold on the Indian domains, slowly forcing the savages westward. The struggle had been continuous for years, and the final result inevitable. Yet this year the story had been a different one, for the united tribes had swept the invading stockmen back, had butchered their cattle, and once again roamed these plains as masters. Hamlin knew this; he had met and talked with those driven out, and he was aware that even now Black Kettle's winter camp of hostiles was not far away. This hut might, of course, be the deserted site of some old cow camp, some outrider's shack, but--the fellow who fired on them! He was a reality--a dangerous reality--and he was hiding somewhere close at hand.

The Sergeant stole along the front to the door, listening intently for any warning sound from either without or within. Every nerve was on edge; all else forgotten except the intensity of the moment. He could perceive nothing to alarm him, no evidence of any presence inside. Slowly, noiselessly, his Colt poised for instant action, he lifted the wooden latch, and permitted the door to swing slightly ajar, yielding a glimpse within. There was light from above, flittering dimly through some crevice in the bluff, and the darker shadows were reddened by the cheery glow of a fireplace directly opposite, although where the smoke disappeared was not at first evident. Hamlin perceived these features at a glance, standing motionless. His quick eyes visioned the whole interior--a rude table and bench, a rifle leaning in one corner, a saddle and trappings hanging against the wall; a broad-brimmed hat on the floor, a pile of skins beyond. There was an appearance of neatness also, the floor swept, the table unlittered. Yet he scarcely realized these details at the time so closely was his whole attention centred on the figure of a man. The fellow occupied a stool before the fireplace, and was bending slightly forward, staring down at the red embers, unconscious of the intruder. He was a thin-chested, unkempt individual with long hair, and shaggy whiskers, both iron gray. The side of his face and neck had a sallow look, while his nose was prominent. The Sergeant surveyed him a moment, his cocked revolver covering the motionless figure, his lips set grimly. Then he stepped within, and closed the door.