He thought of plague or some other disaster which might have overtaken the little village and wiped out nine tenths of the populace in a day. Only such a thing could account for silence in Eldara. There should have been bursts and roars of laughter here and there, and now and then a harsh stream of cursing. There should have been clatter of kitchen tins; there should have been neighing of horses; there should have been the quiver and tingle of children's voices at play in the dusty streets. But there was none of this. The silence was as thick and oppressive as the unbroken dark of the night. Even Butler's saloon was closed!
This, however, was something which he would not believe, no matter what testimony his eyes gave him. He rode up to a shuttered window and kicked it with his heel.
Only the echoes of that racket replied to him from the interior of the place. He swore, somewhat touched with awe, and kicked again.
A faint voice called: "Who's there?"
"Steve Nash. What the devil's happened to Eldara?"
The boards of the shutter stirred, opened, so that the man within could look out.
"Is it Steve, honest?"
"Damn it, Butler, don't you know my voice? What's turned Eldara into a cemetery?"
"Cemetery's right. 'Butch' Conklin and his gang are going to raid the place to-night."
"Butch Conklin?"