the country by a passel of tinhorns." The old man grinned sardonically. "Anyway, you ain't about to leave a fireside for that storm out there."
Hurley sat down helpless and angry. Bentpn gathered the dishes and carried them to the sink, then, pouring water into a dishpan from the teakettle, he began washing the dishes.
The warmth of the room, combined with his weariness, made Hurley nod. His head bobbed several times but he struggled to keep his eyes open. It was comfortable to relax after his long battle against the storm, and outside the sod house he could hear the wind blowing, enough to remind him that had he not found shelter he would have been dead by morning.
Benton indicated a drawer in an old-fashioned bureau. "In that drawer there's blankets. You take the other bottom bunk."
Benton was still puttering around when Hurley dropped off to sleep. Hurley's last thought was: "At daybreak . . . when daybreak comes I'll get out of here."
A blast of icy air awakened him and for an instant Hurley lay still, fighting to find himself, to realize where he was. The room was dark, swirling with blown snow, and nothing was familiar. Then it all came back to him, and he scrambled out of bed and slammed the door shut.
"What happened?" he asked into the silence, but the silence remained unbroken. Hurley stood still, listening, and he heard no sound but the wind.
Fumbling for his shirt, he found matches and lit one, then the lamp.
Benton's bunk was empty, but it had been slept in.
Hastily, Hurley got into his pants and boots and picked up his coat and shrugged into it. He strapped on his gun belt and, opening a lantern that stood by the door, he lit it. For an instant, he hesitated.
The Talbots might be out there. They might be ... but his common sense told him they could not be. They would be holed up somewhere, waiting out the storm.
Opening the door, Hurley stepped out into the darkness. The wind was blowing a gale, and he was almost stifled by a blast of wind that blew his breath right back down his throat. Ducking his head, he stepped into the storm and almost tripped over a body, half buried in swirling snow.
Stooping, Hurley picked up the man and carried him to the door, which he opened with one hand, and stepped inside. Then he returned for the lantern.
The body was that of Benton, and a glance told him the old man's leg was broken.
Stretching him out on the bunk, Hurley covered him with blankets and then went to the fire which had been banked against the long hours of night. Stirring the coals, he added fuel and built a roaring blaze to warm the room. He worked swiftly, knowing warmth would be most important to Benton now. Then he crossed the room to the injured man, slit his trouser leg, and pulled the leg into place. He was binding splints when Benton came out of it and tried to sit up.
"Lie still . . . you've busted your leg."
Benton settled back, his face gray with pain. Hurley turned from him and, searching through a cabinet, found a bottle of whiskey. He poured a slug into a glass and handed it to Benton. "Do you good," he said. "Mighty poor stuff to drink if you're going to stay out in the cold, but once inside it warms you up."
Benton drank the whiskey and handed the glass back to Hurley. He settled back, looking around him. "Last thing I recall," he said, "some noise out at the barn. I started out and slipped on the steps. I felt myself falling . . . that was all."
Hurley explained how he had awakened to find the door open and snow swirling into the room.
Then Benton's remark reached his consciousness. "You say you heard a noise at the barn?"
Benton nodded. "You better go see what's wrong."
The Talbots . . . they could be out there. They knew he would come for his horse, and the barn was warm. They could be out there waiting to shoot him down as he came in out of the morning. Or they might have made the noise on purpose to draw someone to the stable.
"It can wait," Hurley replied sullenly. "The
Hurley sat down helpless and angry. Bentpn gathered the dishes and carried them to the sink, then, pouring water into a dishpan from the teakettle, he began washing the dishes.
The warmth of the room, combined with his weariness, made Hurley nod. His head bobbed several times but he struggled to keep his eyes open. It was comfortable to relax after his long battle against the storm, and outside the sod house he could hear the wind blowing, enough to remind him that had he not found shelter he would have been dead by morning.
Benton indicated a drawer in an old-fashioned bureau. "In that drawer there's blankets. You take the other bottom bunk."
Benton was still puttering around when Hurley dropped off to sleep. Hurley's last thought was: "At daybreak . . . when daybreak comes I'll get out of here."
A blast of icy air awakened him and for an instant Hurley lay still, fighting to find himself, to realize where he was. The room was dark, swirling with blown snow, and nothing was familiar. Then it all came back to him, and he scrambled out of bed and slammed the door shut.
"What happened?" he asked into the silence, but the silence remained unbroken. Hurley stood still, listening, and he heard no sound but the wind.
Fumbling for his shirt, he found matches and lit one, then the lamp.
Benton's bunk was empty, but it had been slept in.
Hastily, Hurley got into his pants and boots and picked up his coat and shrugged into it. He strapped on his gun belt and, opening a lantern that stood by the door, he lit it. For an instant, he hesitated.
The Talbots might be out there. They might be ... but his common sense told him they could not be. They would be holed up somewhere, waiting out the storm.
Opening the door, Hurley stepped out into the darkness. The wind was blowing a gale, and he was almost stifled by a blast of wind that blew his breath right back down his throat. Ducking his head, he stepped into the storm and almost tripped over a body, half buried in swirling snow.
Stooping, Hurley picked up the man and carried him to the door, which he opened with one hand, and stepped inside. Then he returned for the lantern.
The body was that of Benton, and a glance told him the old man's leg was broken.
Stretching him out on the bunk, Hurley covered him with blankets and then went to the fire which had been banked against the long hours of night. Stirring the coals, he added fuel and built a roaring blaze to warm the room. He worked swiftly, knowing warmth would be most important to Benton now. Then he crossed the room to the injured man, slit his trouser leg, and pulled the leg into place. He was binding splints when Benton came out of it and tried to sit up.
"Lie still . . . you've busted your leg."
Benton settled back, his face gray with pain. Hurley turned from him and, searching through a cabinet, found a bottle of whiskey. He poured a slug into a glass and handed it to Benton. "Do you good," he said. "Mighty poor stuff to drink if you're going to stay out in the cold, but once inside it warms you up."
Benton drank the whiskey and handed the glass back to Hurley. He settled back, looking around him. "Last thing I recall," he said, "some noise out at the barn. I started out and slipped on the steps. I felt myself falling . . . that was all."
Hurley explained how he had awakened to find the door open and snow swirling into the room.
Then Benton's remark reached his consciousness. "You say you heard a noise at the barn?"
Benton nodded. "You better go see what's wrong."
The Talbots . . . they could be out there. They knew he would come for his horse, and the barn was warm. They could be out there waiting to shoot him down as he came in out of the morning. Or they might have made the noise on purpose to draw someone to the stable.
"It can wait," Hurley replied sullenly. "The
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