"Perhaps we had better go out on the verandah," she suggested. "They will be in plain sight across the meadows beyond the lake, under the moon. Do you think it wisest to wear your guns?"
"I wear one from habit," answered Sheridan. "It will not provoke anything, if that is what you mean. They will have theirs."
"No doubt about that," said Jackson as a small body of horsemen, scattering as they came, galloped from the rim of the rift towards the lake. The moon was now looking down into the mountain valley and they rode in its light, shouting and firing off their guns as they came. Sheridan's face grew stern; they were drunker, more careless, more confident than he had hoped they would be.
"The derned fools 'll likely forgit to reload," said Red. "Seein' they ain't expectin' to meet up with no men. Here's hopin' they empty their cylinders."
There were nine of them. Tuni, the Indian, had either balked or been left behind. Sheridan picked out Hollister leading the rest. He flung up his hand and shouted, apparently demanding a belated silence which was achieved as they reached the lake. The sight of the low house with its orange window seemed to have helped to quiet them by its unexpected picture. Here was a home.
They rode around the lake and reappeared from the shadows of the trees, lining up irregularly some distance from the house. The verandah was in deep shadow. For a moment they consulted. Hollister rode out.
"Hello, the house!" he shouted.
