“I heerd y’u got Daggs,” whispered Meeker, as he peered all around.
“Wal, y’u heerd correct,” drawled Blaisdell.
Meeker muttered strong words into his beard. “Say, was Daggs in thet Jorth outfit?”
“He WAS. But he walked right into Jean’s forty-four.... An’ I reckon his carcass would show some more.”
“An’ whar’s Guy Isbel?” demanded Meeker.
“Daid an’ buried, Abel,” replied Gaston Isbel. “An’ now I’d be obliged if y’u ’ll hurry your folks away, an’ let us have your cabin an’ corral. Have yu got any hay for the hosses?”
“Shore. The barn’s half full,” replied Meeker, as he turned away. “Come on in.”
“No. We’ll wait till you’ve gone.”
When Meeker had gone, Isbel and his men sat their horses and looked about them and spoke low. Their advent had been expected, and the little town awoke to the imminence of the impending battle. Inside Meeker’s house there was the sound of indistinct voices of women and the bustle incident to a hurried vacating.
Across the wide road people were peering out on all sides, some hiding, others walking to and fro, from fence to fence, whispering in little groups. Down the wide road, at the point where it turned, stood Greaves’s fort-like stone house. Low, flat, isolated, with its dark, eye-like windows, it presented a forbidding and sinister aspect. Jean distinctly saw the forms of men, some dark, others in shirt sleeves, come to the wide door and look down the road.