they filed out to the hotel, to the east the mountains were beginning
to roll up out of the night, and one cloud, far away and high in the
sky, was turning pink. They found the hotel wakening even at this early
hour. At least, the Chinese cook was rattling in the kitchen as he
built the fire. When the six reached the door of Sinclair's room,
stepping lightly, they heard the occupant singing softly to himself.

"Early riser," whispered Denver Jim.

"Too early to be honest," replied Judge Lodge.

Larsen raised one of his great hands and imposed an absolute silence.
Then, stepping with astonishing softness, considering his bulk, he
approached the door of Sinclair's room. Into his left hand slid his .45
and instantly five guns glinted in the hands of the others. With equal
caution they ranged themselves behind the big Swede. The latter glanced
over his shoulder, made sure that everything was in readiness, and then
kicked the door violently open.

Riley Sinclair was sitting on the side of his bed, tugging on a pair of
riding boots and singing a hushed song. He interrupted himself long
enough to look up into the muzzle of Larsen's gun. Then deliberately he
finished drawing on the boot, singing while he did so; and, still
deliberately, rose and stamped his feet home in the leather. Next he
dropped his hands on his hips and considered the posse gravely.

"Always heard tell how Sour Creek was a fine town but I didn't know
they turned out reception committees before sunup. How are you, boys?
Want my roll?"