was the door. Unless he was hard pressed, he must not
shoot; women were concerned, and the fort or Clark's might be stirred
to unreasonable retaliation in their name; for example, there was that
poor devil of a cow-puncher at Dodge who had been riddled simply for
slapping his wife.... Obviously, the shack must be occupied without the
shedding of blood. But what of his safety? "I'll jus' have t' chance
it," he said, and hunted for something to use as a battering-ram.

Not a pole, not even a piece of board, could he find. A scarcity of fuel
before Squaw Charley began furnishing it had led to the burning of every
odd bit of timber. Disgruntled, but not discouraged, Matthews crawled
back to the front of the cabin and closely examined the door. "I thought
so!" he declared joyfully when he was done. Rain and snow had swelled
the thick boards of which it was built. But through the narrow cracks
between these, he saw that the transverse pieces on the inside, like the
four without, were only slender battens. "If I can git some of them
cleats off," he said, "I can bust in."

With a horn-handle knife he pried up the end of a batten until he could
get his fingers beneath it. Then he pulled, and it came away. A light
strip from side to side marked where it had been. Three times more he
pried and pulled, and the outer transverse pieces lay on the snow. For
the rest of his job Matthews had to depend on his shoulders.

Putting his knife in his pocket, he backed to the top of the nearest
drift. There he gathered himself together and, with a defiant grunt,
hurled himself headlong at the door. As it bent with the force of the
impact, a shriek rang out. Well satisfied, Matthews retreated and flung
himself forward a second time. The door cracked ominously; the inside
bolt rattled in its sockets. Anticipating a speedy entrance, Matthews
warmed to his task. And each time he fell upon the barrier, a weak moan
from within swelled to a cry of mortal terror.

And then--a few feet behind him, a voice interrupted--a well-modulated
voice, in an amused, ironical tone. "Well," it said slowly, "I hope
you're enjoying yourself."

Matthews whirled and reached for a weapon. He was too late. As he swung
it forward, the single eye of a revolver held his. Beyond was Lounsbury.

A queer tremor ran around the storekeeper's mouth. His nostrils swelled,
and he wrinkled his forehead. "Sorry," he said drily, "but it's my
bead."

Sheer surprise, together wi