“There’s no light in the shanty,” said the Right Bower in a low voice, half to himself and half in answer to their inquiring attitude.  The men followed the direction of his finger.  In the distance the black outline of the Lone Star cabin stood out distinctly in the illumined space.  There was the blank, sightless, external glitter of moonlight on its two windows that seemed to reflect its dim vacancy, empty alike of light and warmth and motion.

“That’s sing’lar,” said the Judge in an awed whisper.

The Left Bower, by simply altering the position of his hands in his trousers’ pockets, managed to suggest that he knew perfectly the meaning of it, had always known it; but that being now, so to speak, in the hands of Fate, he was callous to it.  This much, at least, the elder brother read in his attitude.  But anxiety at that moment was the controlling impulse of the Right Bower, as a certain superstitious remorse was the instinct of the two others, and without heeding the cynic, the three started at a rapid pace for the cabin.

They reached it silently, as the moon, now riding high in the heavens, seemed to touch it with the tender grace and hushed repose of a tomb.  It was with something of this feeling that the Right Bower softly pushed open the door; it was with something of this dread that the two others lingered on the threshold, until the Right Bower, after vainly trying to stir the dead embers on the hearth into life with his foot, struck a match and lit their solitary candle.  Its flickering light revealed the familiar interior unchanged in aught but one thing.  The bunk that the Old Man had occupied was stripped of its blankets; the few cheap ornaments and photographs were gone; the rude poverty of the bare boards and scant pallet looked up at them unrelieved by the bright face and gracious youth that had once made them tolerable.  In the grim irony of that exposure, their own penury was doubly conscious.  The little knapsack, the tea-cup and coffee-pot that had hung near his bed, were gone also.  The most indignant protest, the most pathetic of the letters he had composed and rejected, whose torn fragments still littered the floor, could never have spoken with the eloquence of this empty space!  The men exchanged no words; the solitude of the cabin, instead of drawing them together, seemed to isolate each one in selfish distrust of the others.  Even the unthinking garrulity of Union Mills and the Judge was checked.  A moment later, when the Left Bower entered the cabin, his presence was scarcely noticed.

The silence was broken by a joyous exclamation from the Judge.  He had discovered the Old Man’s rifle in the corner, where it had been at first overlooked.  “He ain’t gone yet, gentlemen—­for yer’s his rifle,” he broke in, with a feverish return of volubility, and a high excited falsetto.  “He wouldn’t have left this behind.  No!  I knowed it from the first.  He’s just outside a bit, foraging for wood and water.  No, sir!  Coming along here I said to Union Mills—­didn’t I?—­’Bet your life the Old Man’s not far off, even if he ain’t in the cabin.’  Why, the moment I stepped foot”—­