"Allan got around here—many times," he said reflectively. "He wasn't murdered on his first visit—nor his second. Allan's case isn't ours. Not if I figger right."
"How d'you figger?"
"They'll try and hustle us. If I figger right they don't want folk around—any folk. I don't think that's why they murdered Allan. There was more to that. Seems to me we'll get a visit from a bunch of 'em. Maybe they'll get around with some of the rifles they stole from Allan. They'll squat right here on their haunches and tell us the things they fancy, and—— Hello!"
Kars broke off, but made no movement. He did not even turn his head from his contemplative regard of the white ashes of the fire. There was a sound. The sound of some one approaching through the trees. It was the sound of a shod footstep. It was not the tread of moccasins.
Bill eased himself. In doing so his revolver holster was swung round to a handy position. But Kars never stirred a muscle.
A moment later he spoke in a tone keyed a shade lower.
"A feller wearing boots. It's only one—I wonder."
Bill had risen to his feet.
"My nerves aren't as steady as yours. I'm going to look," he announced.
He moved off, and presently his voice came back to the man by the fire.