They were almost directly in the rear of the Waits’ position, and gradually they began to distinguish them. First, one here, crouching behind the corner of the store, then another one behind the lumber pile. Twenty-two they counted and all armed.
One man seemed to be holding himself in reserve for an emergency. He stood apart from the others, his arms folded across the end of the barrel of his long rifle, and his chin resting on his arms. He did not seem to be taking any active part. He must have been in plain sight of both parties but none of them seemed to molest him.
Every now and then the vicious ping of a high-power rifle rang out from the Morgan store and was answered by a scattering volley from the men in hiding before them.
They saw Hopwood slip across the railroad back of the hotel and glide around through the woods to the back of the Morgan store.
The marshal had been examining the scene minutely through his field glasses. Suddenly he grasped Scott’s elbow.
“There’s my man,” he whispered.
Scott followed the direction of the pointing finger. Farthest away from the store and securely hidden behind a long pile of cordwood was Foster Wait.
“The farthest away and the best hidden of them all,” Scott sneered. “The coward!”
Over in the other direction, opposite the hotel, on a knoll very similar to their own, was the whole logging crew.
“I’m going over there to give a message to my foreman,” Scott said. “Then I am going down to put an end to this row.”