“Had their camp over there in the corner of the corral when I was here before,” he said in a whisper. “Where do you suppose they can be now?”
The wary scout lifted his head, sniffing into the darkness like a pointer dog.
“West o' ther cabin thar, out o' ther wind, most likely. I smell tobacco.”
Even as the words left his lips a man came sauntering slowly around the eastern corner, his outlines barely visible, but the red glow of a pipe bowl showing plainly. He stopped, directly facing them, yawning sleepily, and then turned the other corner. Another moment, and they distinctly heard a voice:
“Hustle up thar now, Manuel, an' turn out; it's your watch; wake up, damn yer—maybe that'll bring yer ter life.”
The remedy applied to the sleeper must have been efficacious, as, an instant later, another figure slouched into view, the new arrival rubbing his eyes with one hand, the other clutching a short-barrelled gun. From the high peak of his hat it was evident this new guard was a Mexican. He walked to the corner, glanced along the east side wall toward the front of the cabin, and then, apparently satisfied the coast was clear, started toward the stream, shuffling along within a foot of where Keith lay flat on the ground. A moment later the men heard him splashing softly in the water, and Keith rolled over, his lips at Bristoe's ear.
“Slip down there; Ben,” he whispered, “and quiet that fellow. I'll find out how many are on the west side. Do the job without any noise.”
He waited until the scout had disappeared like a snake, not even a rustling leaf telling of his passage, and then silently crept forward himself, yet with less caution, until he was able to peer about the corner of the cabin and dimly distinguish the blanketed forms of several men lying close in against the side wall. They rested so nearly together it was difficult to separate them in that darkness, stars giving the only light, but he finally determined their number at five. Five; the Mexican would make six, and there would surely be another guard posted out in the front—seven. But there were eight horses down there in the corral. Then the eighth man—Hawley, without doubt—must be in the cabin. At the thought Keith's teeth clinched, and he had to struggle to control his passion. But no; that would never do; he must discover first exactly where the girl was located; after that they would attend to the curs. Before creeping back to the others, he made quick examination along the rear of the cabin, but could find no visible point of weakness. He tried to recall from memory the nature of the lock on that back door, but could remember nothing except an ordinary wooden latch. If he could insert a knife into the crack that might very easily be dislodged. He drew his hunting knife for the attempt, and, first glancing about, perceived a man creeping toward him. It proved to be Bristoe.
“Fixed the greaser all right, cap, and I reckon he'll be quiet for an hour or two. Look whar he slashed me; struck a pack o' playin' keerds, er I'd a got my ticket.” The front of his blouse was cut wide open, and Keith thought he perceived a stain of blood.
“Pricked you as it was, didn't he?”