A Wounded Name | Page 8

smoke inhaling, and striving to look unconcerned,
edged the swarthy constituents of the group, and with never a word to
one of them, straight through their midst and the doorway beyond went
Blake, catching the three peepers, "the wife of my brother" and the
brace of palpable cutthroats at their loopholes. So unexpected was the
move that it had not even occurred to one of the creatures at the door to
mutter a word of warning. So engrossed were the three in their scrutiny
that Blake's entrance was unheard. True, he had discarded boots and
spurs, and his feet were encased in soft Apache moccasins. The floor,
too, was earthen, but he had made no effort at stealth, and in the gloom
and shadow of the low-roofed room it was for a moment difficult to
distinguish the human figures against the opposite wall. It was his ear
that first gave warning, for low, yet distinct, he heard the words:
"If he'd taken any horse but that roan--or knew less about riding--we'd
'a caught him twenty miles out, and they'd never 'a caught Nevins. Dash,
dash the whole dashed blue-bellied outfit, and be dash, dash, dashed to
their quadruple dashed souls!" and the concentrated spite and hatred of
the speaker hissed in every syllable.
"'Taint a question of what we couldn't do. What can we do? He's got
money and plenty of it cached somewhere about the old camp, and five

hundred dollars of it's mine. That's what I want. I don't care a damn
what they do with him so long as they don't send him to prison where
we can't nail him. That's what that bloody court will do though, an' I
know it."
"How d'ye know?" fiercely demanded the other; "'nless you've been in
the army--which you swear you haven't. Where'd you desert from?
Come, own up now," and, turning for an instant from his peephole, the
speaker became suddenly aware of the silent form of Lieutenant Blake.
"None of your dashed business," began the other, when a harsh "Shut
up!" brought him around in amaze and he, too, confronted the dark
figure standing like a sign post between them and the violet light
beyond the open doorway. Instinctively the hands of both men sought
their pistol-butts, but Blake made never a move. The woman, looking
around for the cause of the sudden silence, caught sight of the
statuesque intruder and, with a low cry, threw her shawl over her head
and, bending almost double, with outstretched, groping hands, scurried
to where the mission-made blanket hung at the doorway of the
bedroom and darted through the aperture like a rabbit to its form, the
folds of the heavy wool falling behind her.
And still the tall lieutenant neither spoke nor moved. His revolver hung
at his right hip, his hunting-knife slept in its sheath, but his hands sat
jauntily on his thighs. The stern, set look of his clear-cut face had given
place to something like a grin of amusement. First at one, then at the
other, of the two bewildered worthies he gazed, looking each
deliberately from head to foot as they hovered there, both irresolute and
disconcerted, one of them visibly trembling. There was a doorway
leading into the room in which was set the table for stage passengers of
the better class, officers and the few ladies who had ventured to follow
their lords into far-away Arizona, or the gente fine, which included
Amazons whose money could pay their way pretty much anywhere and
was made pretty much anyhow. But that room was empty and the one
beyond it, the bar, had only one or two occupants, too far away to see
what was going on. There was a doorway and a swinging screen of
dirty canvas just beyond the loophole lately occupied by "the wife of

my brother," a doorway that gave on the corral, and to each of these
each silent "tough" had given a quick, furtive glance, but not a step was
taken. How long the strain of the situation might have lasted there is no
saying. It was broken by the sudden lifting of that dirty canvas screen,
as sudden and perceptible a start on part of each of the confronted men
and the quick entrance of the engineer. For another second or two no
word was spoken. Loring's eyes were evidently unable at the instant to
penetrate the gloom. Then he recognized Blake, then gradually the two
men at the wall, and then at last Blake spoke.
"There are your followers, Loring."
A moment's careful scrutiny, then a nod of assent was Loring's answer.
"Now, then, you two," said Blake. "I've suspected you before. Now I
more than suspect you. You--the long villain--I warn never to come
nosing about our camp again,