trange and unusual. It had happened to him before;
several times when cattle had stampeded; once when a Mexican freighter
at a cow camp had rose in the night to slip his knife into a puncher
with whom he had had trouble during the day. Incidentally, except for
Calumet, the Mexican would have made his escape. It had happened to
him again when a band of horse thieves had attempted to run off some
stock; it had never happened unless something unusual was going on.
And so he was certain that something unusual was going on now, and he
lay still, looking around him, to make sure that what was happening was
not happening in his room. He turned his head and looked at Dade.
That young man was breathing heavily and regularly. He turned toward
the door of the room. The door was closed. A flood of moonlight
entered the window; objects in the room were clearly distinguishable,
and nothing seemed wrong here. But something was wrong--he was certain
of that. And so he got carefully out of bed and looked out of the
window, listening, peering intently in all directions within the limits
of his vision. No sound greeted his ears, no moving object caught his
gaze. But he was not satisfied.

He put on his clothes, buckled his cartridge belt around his waist,
took his six-shooter from beneath his pillow, and stuck it into the
holster, and in his stockinged feet opened the door of the room and
stepped out into the hall. He was of the opinion that something had
gone wrong with the horses, and he intended to make the rounds of the
stable and corrals to satisfy his curiosity. Strangely, he did not
think of the possibility of Betty meeting Taggart again, until he had
reached the bottom of the stairs. Even then he was half-way across the
dining-room, stepping carefully and noiselessly for fear he might
awaken someone, when he glanced back with a sudden suspicion, toward
the door of the office. As in that other time there shone a streak of
light through the crevice between the bottom of the door and the
threshold.

He stood still, his muscles contracting, his lips curling, a black,
jealous anger in his heart. Taggart was there again.

But he would not escape this time. He would take care to make no noise
which would scare him away. He listened at the door, but he heard no
voices. They were in there, though, he could distinguish slight
movements. He left the door and stole softly up the stairs to his
room, getting his boots and