“How did that happen?” he asked.
Again Hopwood’s answer was so low that he could hardly hear it.
Scott straightened suddenly. His anger was choking him, and the hot blood leaping through his veins almost blinded him.
Hopwood, still panting from his exertions, jumped from the log and started straight down through the woods.
“Where are you going?” Scott called sharply.
“Down to fight on the side of the Morgans,” he answered without even turning his head.
“So am I,” Scott exclaimed savagely, “and so is all my logging crew unless this feud is dropped now and forever.”
“What’s going on?” the marshal asked.
But Scott did not seem to hear him. He strode down the mountain slope in the direction Hopwood had taken. His eyes were searching the woods for any signs of the Waits, and his ears were straining to catch any significant sounds from the valley below, but his mind was far away in the little cabin up on the opposite mountain.
When they came to a little clearing on a knoll which overlooked the village they stopped to reconnoiter. At first they could see nothing out of the ordinary. The village seemed as quiet and deserted as ever. Mr. Roberts was still sitting calmly on the end of the station platform and two women were peeping from an upstairs window of the hotel.