neither. ’Stead of our bein’ caught in the mountains, I reckon we’ll shoot it out here. We should have cached that gold somewhere.”
He spun the cylinder of his blackened Colt, while his face grew hard and vulture-like.
Meanwhile, Cherry Malotte watched the hunted look in Glenister’s face grow wilder and then stiffen into the stubbornness of a man at bay. The posse was at the door now, knocking. The three inside stood rigid and strained. Then Glenister tossed his burden on the bed.
“Go into the back room, Cherry; there’s going to be trouble.”
“Who’s there?” inquired Dextry through the door, to gain time. Suddenly, without a word, the girl glided to the hot-blast heater, now cold and empty, which stood in a corner of the room. These stoves, used widely in the North, are vertical iron cylinders into which coal is poured from above. She lifted the lid and peered in to find it a quarter full of dead ashes, then turned with shining eyes and parted lips to Glenister. He caught the hint, and in an instant the four sacks were dropped softly into the feathery bottom and the ashes raked over. The daring manœuvre was almost as quick as the flash of woman’s wit that prompted it, and was carried through while the answer to Dextry’s question was still unspoken.
Then Glenister opened the door carelessly and admitted the group of men.
“We’ve got a search-warrant to look through your house,” said Voorhees.
“What are you looking for?”