“Yes, sir; some men of fair intelligence, too, have faith in it. They can account for the results we accomplish in no other way. A fugitive is passed along by us, night after night, until he secures his freedom. Our methods are a profound mystery.”
“Let ’m stop right thar,” returned Maybee. “You fellers’d better git to sleep.”
Steward extinguished the light, placed his weapons where they could be reached instantly, and laid down by Warren. The rain still fell gently down in a patter on the roof, the little clock ticked in its place over the wooden stand. Warren could not sleep. An hour passed. There was a footstep. Warren’s ear alone caught the sound. He raised himself on his elbow and grasped his pistol. There were more steps. They came nearer. A hand was passed cautiously over the door. Warren touched the form of Steward.
“What is it?” he asked in a whisper.
“Listen!”
The movement at the door continued as softly as before.
“Who’s there?” called out Steward.
“Travellers; we want to find the road.”
“Where from?”
“Missouri.”