‘They know he’s here,’ said Nan quickly.
Her father looked at her quizzically.
‘Calls yuh by yore first name—and you don’t want him to go, eh?’
Nan got quickly to her feet. ‘I think I better start supper.’
The old man filled his pipe and smoked slowly for a while, stealing an occasional glance at Rex. Finally he got to his feet, stretched wearily.
‘I dunno,’ he said, as though talking to himself. ‘Soft-handed tenderfoot and a nester’s daughter. I had hopes she’d pick a man.’
Then he went slowly into the house, leaving Rex to wonder what he meant. He looked at his hands. They were undeniably soft, but just now not very clean. Finally he went back through the house and stood in the doorway between the living-room and kitchen, watching Nan prepare a meal. His head ached a little and he suddenly remembered that it had been a long time since he had eaten anything.
Paul Lane came past him and entered the kitchen where he glanced at the woodbox, discovered it almost empty, and started for the back door. But he did not open it. He stopped suddenly and listened. Nan turned from the stove, holding a skillet in her hand.
It was the sound of horses’ hoofs on the hard-packed ground of the yard. Unconsciously Rex crossed near the old man.
None of them said a word. Suddenly the old man reached out and flung the door open, almost swinging it back against Rex, who stepped back. In the doorway stood Spike Cahill and Dell Bowen, guns in hand, while behind them were Bert Roddy, Dave Morgan, and Red Eller.