to
fear from Simmy. Only that same sense which was part of any scout's
equipment nagged at Drew, warning him that the crisis was not over.

He went down on one knee beside Simmy, endeavoring to roll him over to
examine his wound. The guerrilla's mouth was slackly open, his small,
predator's eyes were oddly bewildered, as if he could not comprehend
what had happened to him or why. As Drew fumbled with his clothing to
lay bare the wound, Simmy twisted, his legs pulling up a little. Then
his head rolled, and Drew sat back on his heels. There was no longer any
need for aid.

Boyd still rested on his elbow, listening. He could hear Hatch's thick
breathing and Jas's, a crack of charred wood breaking on the hearth, a
slashing against the broken window ... the storm had begun again. Only
those were not the sounds they were listening for.

Drew visited in turn each of the flimsy barricades he had erected after
Kirby left. He had no way of telling time. How long had it been since
the Texan left? It could not be too far from morning now, yet the sky
outside the windows was still as black as night.

"Drew!" Boyd pulled his other hand free, pointing to the ceiling over
their heads.

The loft! And the route Weatherby had made use of when he had gone up
that ladder, dropped out of a window above, and returned with his
prisoner through the front door. But if the Cherokee had come back to
the cabin, surely the disturbance in the room below would have brought
him down. Unless he was otherwise occupied.... How? And by whom?

Drew went to the foot of the ladder, not looking up to show his
suspicion, but only to listen. He was certain he heard a scraping sound.
Was it someone making his way through a small window? No one who had
been weeks in Weatherby's company could believe that the Indian would
betray his movements in that manner.

Drew left the ladder, collected the Spencer, and joined Boyd. The rest
of the weapons lay at hand, and Drew sorted them out swiftly, piling
them between Boyd and his own post. From here, as he had earlier
planned, they had both doors, two windows, and the ladder to the loft
under surveillance. The other window was over the level of their heads.
As long as they kept below its sill, anyone shooting through it could
not touch them.

Boyd hitched his shoulders higher against the wall. He was still
flushed, his eyes too bright, but he was certainly more himself than he
had been any time since they had br