“You mean there weren’t any rustlers at all?” put in Stratton impulsively.
“Shore there was, but they didn’t fire that shot that winged me. I’d just got sight of ’em four or five hundred yards away an’ was ridin’ along in the shadow tryin’ to edge close enough to size ’em up an’ mebbe pick off a couple. My cayuse was headin’ south, with the rustlers pretty near dead ahead, when I come to a patch of moonlight I had to cross. I pulled out considerable to ride around a spur just 80 beyond, so when that shot came I was facin’ pretty near due east. The bullet hit me in the left leg, yuh recollect.”
Stratton’s eyes narrowed. “Then it must have been fired from the north—from the direction of the—”
He broke off abruptly as Rick’s fingers gripped his wrist.
“Look!” breathed Bemis, in a voice that was scarcely audible.
He was staring over the low foot-board of the bed straight at the open door, and Buck swiftly followed the direction of his glance. For an instant he saw nothing. The doorway was quite empty, and he could not hear a sound. Then, of a sudden, his gaze swept on across the living-room and he caught his breath.
On the further wall, directly opposite the bedroom door, hung a long mirror in a tarnished gilded frame. It reflected not only the other side of the doorway but a portion of the wall on either side of it—reflected clearly, among other things, the stooping figure of a woman, her limp calico skirts dragged cautiously back in one skinny hand, her sharp, swarthy face bent slightly forward in an unmistakable attitude of listening.