with blankets thrown back just as the sleeper had left them filled one
side of the chamber. There were two chairs, a washstand, a six-inch by
ten looking-glass, and a chromo or two on the wall. A sawed-off shotgun
was standing in a corner. Here and there were scattered soiled clothing
and stained boots. The door was ajar, but nobody was in the room.

Dave eased himself over the sill and waited for a moment while he
listened, the revolver in his hand. It seemed to him that he could hear
a faint murmur of voices, but he was not sure. He moved across the bare
plank floor, slid through the door, and again stopped to take stock of
his surroundings.

He was at the head of a stairway which ran down to the first floor and
lost itself in the darkness of the hall. Leaning over the banister, he
listened intently for any sign of life below. He was sure now that he
heard the sound of low voices behind a closed door.

The cowpuncher hesitated. Should he stop to explore the upper story? Or
should he go down at once and try to find out what those voices might
tell him? It might be that time was of the essence of his contract to
discover what had become of Emerson Crawford. He decided to look for his
information on the first floor.

Never before had Dave noticed that stairs creaked and groaned so loudly
beneath the pressure of a soft footstep. They seemed to shout his
approach, though he took every step with elaborate precautions. A door
slammed somewhere, and his heart jumped at the sound of it. He did not
hide the truth from himself. If Steelman or his men found him here
looking for Crawford he would never leave the house alive. His foot left
the last tread and found the uncarpeted floor. He crept, hand