It was not the moment to offer friendship or sympathy to Reid. Something of Reid’s own brewing was coming to a boil there, some business of his own was drawing to a head in that lonely cabin among the whispering trees.
Reid took up the lantern, stood a moment as if indecisive, placed it on the stove. Not satisfied with the way the light of it struck him there, apparently, he removed it and stood it in a corner. Whoever was coming, Reid did not want it known at a glance that his scabbard was empty. Mackenzie pressed a little nearer the window. When a man prepared for a meeting with that caution, he would do to watch.
Reid went to the open door, where he stood like a host to receive his guests. The riders were among the trees; coming on more slowly. Now they stopped, and Reid turned to light a fresh cigarette. The flash of the match showed his face white, hat pulled down on his brows, his thin, long gamester’s fingers cupped round the blaze.
There fell a moment of silence, no sound of word, no movement of horse or foot upon the ground. Insects 295 among the trees were grinding their scythes for tomorrow’s reaping, it seemed, whirring in loud, harsh chorus such as one never heard out on the grazing lands.
Now the sound of footsteps approaching the door. Reid came back into the room, where he stood drawing a deep breath of smoke like a man drinking to store against a coming thirst. He dropped the cigarette, set his foot on it, crushed it to sparks on the floor.
Swan Carlson was in the door, the light dim on his stern, handsome face. Behind him stood his woman, a white wimple bound on her forehead like a nun.