The fat was surely in the fire now.
Footsteps made themselves heard again, this time in numbers. The door was tried cautiously. A voice demanded admittance sharply.
Buck opened the door and gazed at the intruders in mild surprise. Old Sanderson and Phil were there, together with Slim and a cow-puncher known as Cuffs. All of them were armed.
"Want to come in, gentlemen?" Weaver asked.
"So you're here, are you?" spoke up Phil.
"That's right. I'm here, sure enough."
"How long you been here?"
"Been hanging round the place ever since my escape. You kept so close a watch I couldn't make my getaway. Some time the other side of noon I drifted in here, figuring some of you would drive me from cover by accident during the day if I stayed out in the chaparral. This room looked handy, so I made myself right at home and locked the door. I hate to shoot up a lady's boudoir, but looks like that's what I've done."
"You durn fool! Who were you shooting at?" Phil asked contemptuously.
But his father stepped forward, and with a certain austere dignity, more menacing than threats, took the words out of the mouth of his son.