hite prairie,
beaten and obscured by the storm, while to his left arose the steep,
bare bluff, swept clear by the wind, revealing its ugliness through the
haze of snow. Not in all the expanse was there visible a moving object
nor track of any kind. He was alone, in the midst of indescribable
desolation--a cold, dead, dreary landscape.

He came to the little patch of forest growth, a dozen gaunt, naked
trees at the river's edge, stunted, two of them already toppling over
the bank, apparently undermined by the water, threatening to fall
before each blast that smote them. Hoping to discover some splinters
for a fire, Hamlin kicked a clear space in the snow, yet kept his face
always toward the bluff, his eyes vigilantly searching for any skulking
figure. Silent as those desert surroundings appeared, the Sergeant
knew he was not alone. He had a feeling that he was being watched,
spied upon; that somewhere near at hand, crouching in that solitude,
the eyes of murder followed his every movement. Suddenly he
straightened up, staring at the bluff nearly opposite where he stood.
Was it a dream, an illusion, or was that actually the front of a cabin
at the base of the bank? He could not believe it possible, nor could
he be sure. If so, then it consisted merely of a room excavated in the
side of the hill, the opening closed in by cottonwood logs. It in no
way extended outward beyond the contour of the bank, and was so
plastered with snow as to be almost indistinguishable a dozen steps
away. Yet those were logs, regularly laid, beyond a doubt; he was
certain he detected now the dim outlines of a door, and a smooth wooden
shutter, to which the snow refused to cling, the size and shape of a
small window. His heart throbbing with excitement, the Sergeant
slipped in against the bluff for protection, moving cautiously closer
until he convinced himself of the reality of his strange discovery by
feeling the rough bark of the logs. It was a form of habitation of
some kind beyond question; apparently unoccupied, for there were no
tracks in the snow without, and no smoke of a fire visible anywhere.

CHAPTER XXVII

HUGHES' STORY

Hamlin thrust his glove into his belt, drew forth his revolver, and
gripped its stock with bare hand. This odd, hidden dwelling might be
deserted, a mere empty shack, but he could not disconnect it in his
mind from that murderous attack made upon their little party two hours
before. Why was it