Until his arm-muscles began to ache he hung there; and never a sound came to him from within. Yet his nerves continued to deliver their warning. In that room where Jake Dalton had slept was something; something besides the bed and the bare lamp-shelf; invisible, intangible, but—something!
He drew back and glanced around once more. The dusk was drawing around the little clearing a closer cordon of gloom; an eerie whisper came from the pines, swept by a gusty wind; the throb of insects resounded as before. Nothing moved. He felt for a match. When he had it, he stepped heavily into the house and tramped over to his gas-lamp, hanging on a nail; turned its valve, shook it up, and waited for the water and carbide to mingle and form the gas. In the brief interval of waiting he watched all around and rapidly reviewed his movements since opening that window.
He had explored the place, finding at the second door a stairway leading into a dusty loft littered with dead wasps; at the third, a room even smaller than the bedroom, partly filled with stove-wood. Outside he had found a well, in which the water seemed good, and a little shed holding only a broken barrel or two, burlap bags, an empty jug, and similar trash. Both door and window had been open while he made his inspection; but he had returned to the bedroom and tossed his blankets on the mattress, and nothing new was there then. And since that time he had not been more than ten feet from it.
The fumes of gas struck his nostrils. He lit the match and touched it to the little nozzle. White and bright, the flame lit up the place. He strode into the bedroom.
Absolutely nothing new was there. With a self-derisive grin, he stooped and glanced under the bed. The floor was bare.
“Now are you satisfied, you timid old woman?” he jeered. “What’s the matter with you, anyhow? Getting nerves?”
His words hollowly mocked him from the outer room. With a disgusted snort he turned away. Boots thumping defiantly, he clattered back to the three-legged table, shoved its crippled side against the wall, kicked the backless chair up to it, and set the lamp on it. To the little pile in the corner he went, and from it he extracted the dry remainder of a bread-loaf and a paper-wrapped chunk of cheese. Then he returned and sat down, hitching around in the chair to get his back toward a windowless wall.
“All the same,” he meditated, sawing off a slice of bread with his jack-knife, “if I stay here long I’ll have to make some improvements. For one thing, that bedroom is too darned handy. Window opens right on the road. So does the front door. No curtains on any of these windows, no key for that door. With Snake Sanders and Nat Oaks both thirsting for my gore and undoubtedly acquainted with the position of that bed—yes, I reckon I’d better move up-stairs or something. No use in lying meekly down and inviting a fistful of shot to come in and mess me up. No sense in sitting here in the light now, either.”
He turned off the gas-flow, set the lamp under the table, and fell to munching his meagre provender.
“However, I’m safe enough in that room to-night,” he told himself. “Nobody knows I’m here except Uncle Eb, who isn’t coming back until to-morrow—and maybe little Miss Marion, who isn’t likely to tell. There’s nothing in that room but imagination, and imagination won’t keep me very wide awake. Ho-hum! I’m going to sleep like a log this night.”