ingers groped
under the edge of the blanket, closing on the Colt. Jas' was inspecting
the pot again, and Simmy had moved forward to share the warmth of the
hearth. With the revolver still in his hand, though concealed by the
blanket, Drew pulled Boyd away from the fire as best he could, aware
the big man was watching closely.

Jas' reached up to the crude mantel shelf, brought down a wooden spoon,
and wiped it on a handkerchief he pulled from an inner pocket.

"This ain't fancy grub," he observed to the room at large, "but it's
better than nothin'. You want Simmy to bring in Petey, Hatch?"

"Th' cap'n's comin'." Simmy's remark was made in a tone of objection.

Hatch swung his head around to eye the smaller man.

"You bring Petey in!" he ordered. "Now!" he added.

For a second or two it appeared that Simmy might rebel, but Hatch stared
him down. Jas' scooped out a spoonful of the pot's contents and blew
over it.

"You fixin' on havin' a showdown with the captain, Hatch?" he asked.

The big man laughed. "I has me a showdown with anyone what gits too big
for his breeches, Jas'. You, Reb--" he indicated Drew, with a thumb
poking through a ragged glove--"supposin' you jus' show us what you got
in them pockets o' yourn."

Jas' laughed. "Don't figure to find anything worth takin' on a Reb do
you, Hatch? Most of 'em are poorer'n dirt."

"Now that's whar you figger wrong, Jas'." Hatch shook his head as might
one deploring the stupidity of the young. "Lotsa them little Reb boys
has got somethin' salted 'way, a nice watch maybe, or a ring or such.
Them what comes from th' big houses kinda hold on to things from home.
What you got, Reb?"

"A gun--in your back!"

Jas' spun in a half crouch, his rifle coming up. There was the explosion
of a shot, making a deafening clap of thunder in the room. The younger
bushwhacker cried out. His rifle lay on the floor, and he was holding a
bloody hand. Kirby stood in the doorway, a Colt in each hand. And now
Drew produced his own hidden weapon, centering it on Hatch.

The door burst open for the second time as Simmy was propelled through
it, his hands shoulder high, palm out, and empty. Weatherby came behind
him, a gun belt slung over one shoulder, two extra revolvers thrust into
his own belt.

"They got Petey," Simmy gabbled. "Got him wi' a knife!" His forward rush
brought him against the wall, and he made no move to turn around to face
them. He could only plaster his body tight