door's shut, I can see that."
He got down the coffee and made a pot. How long he had slept he had no idea, but he was fully awake now. If they were really there.
Benton watched him with sardonic amusement as he made the coffee and brought a cup to the injured man. "Don't know whether them Talbots are out there, or not," he said. "You just got to wait and see, or you've got to go out there and find out. Puts a man in a jim-dandy fix."
"Shut up," Hurley said irritably.
He stood over the stove, feeding sticks into the flames and trying to think it out. Even if the storm let up a man would have no chance afoot, for aside from the distance and the cold his tracks would be laid out plain as print for anyone to follow.
He got down the old man's Spencer and checked the loads. Seven shots. He was a good shot with a rifle, and had hunted rabbits and squirrels back in Ohio. The distance to the barn was no more than sixty or seventy feet, point blank range.
After awhile Hurley put the light out and stretched out on his bunk. He could hear deep breathing from Benton's bed and decided the old man must be asleep.
Hurley sat up so suddenly he bumped his head on the upper bunk. What about Benton?
Somehow, in the excitement of finding the old man with a broken leg, and his worry about the Talbots being in the stable, he had given no thought to Benton.
Hurley could not leave him. He would have to stay on, he would have to stay and face the Talbots whether they were in the stable or not.
He had escaped death in the storm to trap himself here, a sitting duck to be killed whenever they came upon the place, and he had no chance.
He got out of the bunk and walked to the window. The wind had died down, and here and there he could see a break in the clouds. The barn was a low, squat hovel almost buried in snow. No tracks led to or from it, but there need be no tracks now, for it had blown snow long after they would have entered.
Angrily, he stared at the barn. And then he thought of the obvious idea. He had no business here at all. Suppose the old man had fallen when here alone? He would get along, wouldn't he? Suppose no one had been here to carry Benton in out of the snow? He would be dead by now. By bringing him in, Hurley had repaid Benton for whatever shelter he had gotten here. From now on they were quits and he could leave.
Only he could not go.
He picked up the Spencer, then put it down. If somebody was inside, the length of the rifle would be more of a handicap. What he needed was his pistol.
Hurley paused inside the door, taking a deep breath. Why was he going out there? Was he going to get his horse and run?
He was no gunman, he was a farmer, and all he wanted to be was a farmer. Suddenly he knew why he was going out there, and it was very simple. He was going out to feed the stock, just as any farmer would do on any winter morning.
His stock?
For the first time he thought of his own stock. The cattle were loose to roam, and they were used to bad weather, and this snow wasn't so deep but what they could scratch through it for grass, and there were several haystacks to which he always let down the bars when he left the ranch. The chance of their coming to the stacks was slight, for usually they stayed well out on the range, but if they did there was feed.
Except for his horses, which were all in stalls, in the barn. He had told Anderson he was going into town, and Anderson would water them if he did not see Hurley return before dark. Anderson was a careful man, and he would realize at once that something had gone wrong, hearing the story as soon as anyone. He would care for the horses."
Standing there in the door, Hurley remembered the house he had built with his own hands, the cattle he owned, the horses, fine stock they were, that he had left behind. Benton was right. He would never have as much again.
Opening the door, he stepped outside into the cold.
The sky was clearing off, and there was a red glow in the east
He got down the coffee and made a pot. How long he had slept he had no idea, but he was fully awake now. If they were really there.
Benton watched him with sardonic amusement as he made the coffee and brought a cup to the injured man. "Don't know whether them Talbots are out there, or not," he said. "You just got to wait and see, or you've got to go out there and find out. Puts a man in a jim-dandy fix."
"Shut up," Hurley said irritably.
He stood over the stove, feeding sticks into the flames and trying to think it out. Even if the storm let up a man would have no chance afoot, for aside from the distance and the cold his tracks would be laid out plain as print for anyone to follow.
He got down the old man's Spencer and checked the loads. Seven shots. He was a good shot with a rifle, and had hunted rabbits and squirrels back in Ohio. The distance to the barn was no more than sixty or seventy feet, point blank range.
After awhile Hurley put the light out and stretched out on his bunk. He could hear deep breathing from Benton's bed and decided the old man must be asleep.
Hurley sat up so suddenly he bumped his head on the upper bunk. What about Benton?
Somehow, in the excitement of finding the old man with a broken leg, and his worry about the Talbots being in the stable, he had given no thought to Benton.
Hurley could not leave him. He would have to stay on, he would have to stay and face the Talbots whether they were in the stable or not.
He had escaped death in the storm to trap himself here, a sitting duck to be killed whenever they came upon the place, and he had no chance.
He got out of the bunk and walked to the window. The wind had died down, and here and there he could see a break in the clouds. The barn was a low, squat hovel almost buried in snow. No tracks led to or from it, but there need be no tracks now, for it had blown snow long after they would have entered.
Angrily, he stared at the barn. And then he thought of the obvious idea. He had no business here at all. Suppose the old man had fallen when here alone? He would get along, wouldn't he? Suppose no one had been here to carry Benton in out of the snow? He would be dead by now. By bringing him in, Hurley had repaid Benton for whatever shelter he had gotten here. From now on they were quits and he could leave.
Only he could not go.
He picked up the Spencer, then put it down. If somebody was inside, the length of the rifle would be more of a handicap. What he needed was his pistol.
Hurley paused inside the door, taking a deep breath. Why was he going out there? Was he going to get his horse and run?
He was no gunman, he was a farmer, and all he wanted to be was a farmer. Suddenly he knew why he was going out there, and it was very simple. He was going out to feed the stock, just as any farmer would do on any winter morning.
His stock?
For the first time he thought of his own stock. The cattle were loose to roam, and they were used to bad weather, and this snow wasn't so deep but what they could scratch through it for grass, and there were several haystacks to which he always let down the bars when he left the ranch. The chance of their coming to the stacks was slight, for usually they stayed well out on the range, but if they did there was feed.
Except for his horses, which were all in stalls, in the barn. He had told Anderson he was going into town, and Anderson would water them if he did not see Hurley return before dark. Anderson was a careful man, and he would realize at once that something had gone wrong, hearing the story as soon as anyone. He would care for the horses."
Standing there in the door, Hurley remembered the house he had built with his own hands, the cattle he owned, the horses, fine stock they were, that he had left behind. Benton was right. He would never have as much again.
Opening the door, he stepped outside into the cold.
The sky was clearing off, and there was a red glow in the east
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