At first his impulse had been incontinently to flee the premises as Jack and Jake had done.  But a saving second thought held him where he was.  It was more than possible that the mysterious fourth man had designs on the contents of the safe.  In which event—­

Racey stood pat.

He heard no sound for at least a minute after Jack and Jake had left, then he heard a soft swish, and a few stars which had been visible through the upper half of the window were blotted out.  The blankets were being readjusted.

A match was struck and a figure stooped for the candle that had been dashed out by the foot of Fat Jakey Pooley.  A table shielded the figure from Racey.  Then the figure straightened and set the flaring match to the candle end.  And the face that bent above the light was the face of one he knew.

“Molly!” he whispered, and slipped from his ambush.

At which Molly dropped candle and match and squeaked in affright.  But her scare did not prevent her from drawing a sixshooter.  He heard the click of the hammer, and whispered desperately, “Molly!  Molly!  It’s me!  Racey!”

He struck a match and retrieved the candle and lit it quickly.  By its light he saw her staring at him uncertainly.  Her eyes were bright with conflicting emotions.  Her sixshooter still pointed in his general direction.

“Put yore gun away,” he advised her.  “We’ve got no time to lose.  Hold the candle for me!  Put it in the can first!”

Automatically she obeyed the several commands.

He knelt before the open safe and, beginning at the top shelf, he stuffed into his bran sack every piece of paper the safe contained.  Besides papers there were two sixshooters and a bowie.  These he did not take.

When the safe was clean of papers Racey tied the mouth of the bran sack, took Molly by the hand, and blew out the candle.

“C’mon,” he said, shortly.  “We’ll be leavin’ here now.”

Towing her behind him he led her to the window of the rear room.  Holding his hat by the brim he shoved it out through the window.  No blow or shot followed the action.  He clapped the hat on his head, and looked out cautiously.  He satisfied himself that the coast was clear and flung a leg over the sill.

When he had helped out Molly he gave her the sack to hold and pulled on his boots.

“Where’s yore hoss?” he whispered.

“I tied him at the corner of the nearest corral,” was the answer.

“C’mon,” said he and took her again by the hand.

They had not gone ten steps when she stumbled and fell against him.

“Whatsa matter?”

“Nothing,” was the almost breathless reply.  “I’m—­I’m all right.  I just stepped on a sharp stone.”

“Yore shoes!” he murmured, contritely.  “I never thought.  Why didn’t you say something?  Here.”

So saying he scooped her up in his arms, settled her in place with due regard for the box of caps in his breast-pocket, and plowed on through the night.  Her arms went round his neck and her head went down on his shoulder.  She sighed a gentle little sigh.  For a sigh like that Racey would cheerfully have shot a sheriff’s posse to pieces.