"That scatter gun might come handy. Reckon I'll move it so's I'll know
just where it's at when I need it," he said to himself, and carried the
gun to the bed, where he covered it with a quilt.

At the top of the stairs Bob also hesitated before passing down. Why not
be sure of his line of communications with the roof before going too far?
He did not want to be in such a hurry that his retreat would be cut off.

With as little noise as possible Bob explored the upper story. The first
room in which he found himself was empty of all furniture except a pair
of broken-backed chairs. One casual glance was enough here.

He was about to try a second door when some one spoke. He recognized the
voice. It belonged to the man who wrote his pay checks, and it came from
an adjoining room.

"Always knew you was crooked as a dog's hind laigs Doble. Never liked you
a lick in the road. I'll say this. Some day I'll certainly hang yore hide
up to dry for yore treachery."

"No use to get on the peck, Em. It don't do you no good to make me sore.
Maybe you'll need a friend before you're shet of Brad."

"It relieves my mind some to tell you what a yellow coyote you are,"
explained the cattleman. "You got about as much sand as a brush rabbit
and I'd trust you as far as I would a rattler, you damned sidewinder."

Bob tried the door. The knob turned in his hand and the door slowly
opened inward.