His eyes chilled now, as he thought of Warden and the others. He got up, his blood pulsing heavily, and started toward the fire. He had reached it, and was standing before it, when he heard a sound at the door—a faint knocking, and a voice.
Davies and Harris were coming now. They were cold, he supposed, had seen the light in the window—perhaps had tried the door; the wind drowning the noise so that he had not heard it before. They were in a hurry to get in, to the warmth the cabin afforded.
He was in no hurry to let them in, and he walked deliberately to the table and stood beside it, his back to the fire, smiling ironically.
He heard no further sound, and he supposed the men had gone to the dugout to turn their horses into its shelter before again trying the door.
He was in a grimly humorous mood now, and he stooped, blew out the light and stepped toward the door, standing back of it, where it would swing against him when the men opened it.
He loosened the fastenings, stealthily. He wanted them to come in and find the two fence cutters there.
He stood for a long time at the door, listening, waiting. No sound reached his ears, and he scowled, puzzled. Then, above the wailing voice of the storm, came the shrill, piercing neigh of a horse.
Several times in his life had Lawler heard that sound—once when a cow-pony which had been bogged down in quicksand had neighed when he had been drawn under; and again when a horse which he had been riding had stepped into a gopher hole and had broken a leg. He had been forced to shoot the animal, for which he had formed a sincere attachment; and it had seemed to him that when he drew the pistol the horse knew what impended—for its shrill neigh had been almost human in its terrible appeal.
It was such a sound that now reached his ears above the roar of the storm.
Davies and Harris were in trouble.