“What the hell started you off that way, Hanlin?” he demanded. “I’ve made a circle around and there’s no one near.”
“He was at the window,” Hanlin said. “Ask Harte. Didn’t Harte open on the door at the same time?”
“Mere presence of mind,” a cool voice answered from the night. “I didn’t see a soul. When you started shooting I took it for granted they had jumped us and cleared the door for a break outside. You're getting spooky, Red.”
“I saw him, I tell you!” Hanlin snapped. “He was looking in at us.”
“We can easy tell,” said Harte. He strode to the window and sheltered a match with his hand while he studied the ground beneath it. The others peered down over his shoulder at the big prints in the dust.
“A stray dog,” Harte said indifferently. “But he evidently looked like a marshal to Red.”
“He makes a track as big as that beast Clark Moran had,” said Brent. He traced a finger along a ridge in his scalp and swore. “I’d like to have got a chance at that big gray brute before the Bar T outfit killed him off.”
“It’s proof of a low order of mentality to let
