Slowly Lem moved through the living-room and into the kitchen. Through the window he could see Spike Cahill on his horse, gun in hand. Farther to the left and down by the corral sat Joe Cave.
But there was no sign of Long Lane. Lem moved slowly back to the living-room. There was another door, which led to a bedroom. It was not locked. Slowly Lem opened it and stepped inside. It was a small room, poorly furnished. On the floor was an empty box, which had contained rifle cartridges, and near the open window was a loaded thirty-thirty cartridge, evidently dropped by some one who was in a hurry.
There had been no one guarding that side of the house, and within fifty feet from the window was a thick fringe of brush which led to a deep arroyo. Lem peered out through the window, but could see no one. He lowered the window softly. There was an old nail, hanging on a string which had been used to block the lower half of the window. He inserted the nail in the little hole over the top of the sash, and went slowly back to the living-room, kicking the empty cartridge box under the bed and putting the loaded cartridge in his pocket.
There was a bed in the living-room, which he judged to be the one used by Paul Lane and his son, and the room he had just left was the one used by Nan. She was still standing at the doorway, and she looked curiously at Lem. Morgan came up to the doorway, halting just outside.
‘Is there any more rooms beside this room, the kitchen, and that bedroom?’ asked Lem.
Nan shook her head. Lem turned to Morgan.
‘He must have went straight through here, Morgan,’ he said. ‘I can’t find anybody.’
‘That’s damn funny!’ snorted Morgan. He surged into the house and went through to the kitchen, where he flung the back door open.
‘See anybody, Spike?’ he asked.
‘Not a soul.’