“Around the house, eh? By golly, I bet he went back in. Look out for him, Slim.”
They sneaked back to the front porch and found the door closed. Hashknife knew it was wide open when he came out and there had been no breeze to close it.
Suddenly came the sound of a muffled shot inside the house.
“Get to the back door!” said Hashknife.
Slim raced around the house, while Hashknife sprang to the porch and flattened himself against the wall beside the door. He heard somebody in the house. It sounded as though somebody had struck a piece of furniture. Then he heard heavy footsteps near the door.
Hashknife gripped his gun tightly and swung up his hand as the door opened and a man surged out. But Hashknife did not strike him. Instead, he dived forward, wrapping his long, muscular arms around the man, and together they plunged off the few steps to the ground.
The man did not offer any resistance. In fact, it was as though Hashknife had tackled a dummy. Quickly he twisted the man’s right arm behind his back, holding him down with his knees, and called to Slim, who came on the run.
“Hold this whipperwill,” said Hashknife. “I think he’s all raveled out, but yuh never can tell.”
They exchanged places and Hashknife went into the house. Moving slowly back to the stairway, he halted at the sound of a groan and scratched a match.
Lying near the foot of the stairs was Butch Reimer, flat on his face, arms outspread. As quickly as possible Hashknife lighted the lamp and called to Slim, who came in, carrying the limp form of Kid Glover.