Dale, striking a trail, turned his back to the fading
afterglow and strode down the valley.

With night at hand and a rain-storm brewing, he did not head
for his own camp, some miles distant, but directed his steps
toward an old log cabin. When he reached it darkness had
almost set in. He approached with caution. This cabin, like
the few others scattered in the valleys, might harbor
Indians or a bear or a panther. Nothing, however, appeared
to be there. Then Dale studied the clouds driving across the
sky, and he felt the cool dampness of a fine, misty rain on
his face. It would rain off and on during the night.
Whereupon he entered the cabin.

And the next moment he heard quick hoof-beats of trotting
horses. Peering out, he saw dim, moving forms in the
darkness, quite close at hand. They had approached against
the wind so that sound had been deadened. Five horses with
riders, Dale made out -- saw them loom close. Then he heard
rough voices. Quickly he turned to feel in the dark for a
ladder he knew led to a loft; and finding it, he quickly
mounted, taking care not to make a noise with his rifle, and
lay down upon the floor of brush and poles. Scarcely had he
done so when heavy steps, with accompaniment of clinking
spurs, passed through the door below into the cabin.

"Wal, Beasley, are you here?" queried a loud voice.

There was no reply. The man below growled under his breath,
and again the spurs jingled.