“Can yuh find the stable?” he whispered.
“Yeah,” softly.
“Get down there, Slim. Mebby you’ll find somebody’s horse planted down there. Stop anybody that comes, even if yuh have to bend a gun over his head.”
“Who will it be, Hashknife?”
“You take a chance on that. If yuh hear a shot at the house, you come runnin’.”
Slim crawled through the corral fence and faded out in the night. From where Hashknife stood he could see the dark bulk of the ranch-house, with no lights showing. Slipping through the fence he cautiously made his way to the rear of the house, traveling almost as silently as a shadow in spite of his high-heeled boots. There was not a sound to be heard except the sleepy calling of a night-bird and the incessant chirp of a cricket.
Hashknife was not familiar with the interior of the ranch-house, but he remembered that there was a back porch, which was unusual in ranch-houses. He made his way silently around to the porch, slid in under the railing, and stood up against the back door, which was closed.
Hashknife felt sure that Butch Reimer had come back to the ranch, although there was no sign of him. It was so dark that objects were practically invisible at a few feet distance. The house was as still as a tomb. Cautiously he tested the door and found it unlocked. This was not at all unusual, as few doors in the cattle country were ever locked. Sneak thieves were unknown.
Hashknife’s next move was a foolish one. He slowly opened the door, thrust his head and shoulders just inside the house and listened intently.
And it was then that his brain registered a soundless explosion; a burst of flame which gave off no sound—and for a time, at least, he lost all interest in anything that might happen at the Half-Box R.