They both listened.
“Someone is coming,” said the girl. “Perhaps—perhaps it is he.”
“There is more than one,” said the youth. “I hear them talking now.” He stepped quickly into the adjoining room and, stooping, took a six-shooter from the floor where it lay beside one of the dead men. Returning, he handed it to Wichita Billings. “Perhaps these are more of Senor Cheetim’s friends,” he suggested.
Together they stood waiting. The sounds of approaching horses ceased, and all was quiet. Wichita knew that whoever it was that came had reached a point where the shack was visible for the first time and were doubtless reconnoitering. Finally a voice broke the silence.
“Chita!” it called aloud, ringing and echoing through the canyon.
“They are my friends,” she said to Luis and ran through the outer room to the front doorway. “Here, ‘Smooth’!” she called. “It is all right. I am in the shack.”
Luis came and stood just behind her shoulder. It was not yet so dark but that features might be recognized at short distances. The two saw Kreff riding forward with Sam and Jake. Luis layed a hand on Wichita’s arm. “They are Cheetim’s friends,” he said. “I know that first one well.” He brushed by her, his revolver in his hand.
“No!” she cried, seizing his arm. “They are my own men. The first one is my foreman.”
“Here’s one of ’em, boys!” cried Kreff as he recognized Luis. “Here’s the damned Greaser that brought me thet lyin’ letter from ‘Dirty.’ Git out o’ the way, Chita!” and leaping from his horse he ran forward.
“Stop!” cried Luis. His weapon was levelled at Kreff’s stomach.