of blood had wonderfully sobered--rushed out from the bar and let
loose a perfect torrent of blows with his club. Murrell felt the
fingers that gripped him grow weak, and Yancy dropped heavily to
the floor.


How long the boy slept he never knew, but he awoke with a start
and a confused sense of things. He seemed to have heard a cry
for help. But the tavern was very silent now. The distant
murmur of voices and the shouts of laughter had ceased. He
lifted himself up on his elbow and glanced from the window. The
heavens were pale and gray. It was evidently very late, probably
long after midnight but where was his Uncle Bob?

He sank back on his pillow intent and listening. What he had
heard, what he still expected to hear, he could not have told,
but he was sure he had been roused by a cry of some sort. A
chilling terror that gripped him fast and would not let him go,
mounted to his brain. Once he thought he heard cautious steps
beyond his door. He could not be certain, yet he imagined the
bull-necked landlord standing with his ear to some crack seeking
to determine whether or not he slept. His thin little body grew
rigid and a cold sweat started from him. He momentarily expected
the latch to be lifted, then in the heavy silence he caught the
sound of some stealthy movement beyond the lath and plaster
partition, and an instant later an audible footfall. He heard
the boards creak and give, as the person who had been standing
before his door passed down the hall, down the stairs, and to the
floor below.