When I opened my eyes it was with a startled conviction that I was no longer alone in the little boxed-in office. In the murky indoor darkness of a moonless night I could barely distinguish the surroundings, the shelf-desk, the black bulk of the old safe, the three-legged stool, and at the end of the room the gray patch which placed the single window. Then, with a cold sweat starting from every pore, I saw the humped figure of a man beside the safe. As nearly as I could make out, he was sitting with his back to the wall and his knees drawn up, and by listening intently I could hear his measured breathing.
It required a greater amount of brute courage than I had thought it would to spring to a sitting posture on the cot and cover the squatting figure with the rifle slewed into position across my knees. The man made no move to obey when I ordered him to hold up his hands. Then I spoke again.
"I've got the drop on you, Dorgan—or Murphey; whichever your name is," I said. "If you move I shall kill you. You see, I know who you are and what you are here for."
A voice, harsh but neither threatening nor pleading, came out of the shadows beside the safe.
"You ain't tellin' me nothin' new, pally. I spotted you a good while back, and I knowed you'd lamped me. You was lookin' f'r me to bust in here to-night?"
"I was. After you followed me to Cripple Creek and back I knew about what to expect."
"And you was layin' f'r me alone?—when you could 'a' had Collins and Nixon and half a dozen more if yous 'd squealed f'r 'em?"
"I didn't need any better help than this," I answered, patting the stock of the Winchester. "The jig's up, Dorgan. You can't crack this safe while I'm here and alive. I suppose you got in by the window: you can go out the same way."
"You're aimin' to turn me loose?" said the voice, and now I fancied there was a curious trembly hoarseness in it.
"You heard what I said."