“Marhof may go to the devil!  He’s a lot more mysterious than even you, Armitage.  These fellows that brought me up here to kill me in the belief that I was you can not be friends of Marhof’s cause.”

“They are not; I assure you they are not!  They are blackguards of the blackest dye.”

“I believe you, Armitage.”

“Thank you.  Now your horse is at the door—­run along like a good fellow.”

Armitage dived into his room, caught up a cartridge belt and reappeared buckling it on.

“Oscar!” he yelled, “bring in that coffee—­with cups for two.”

He kicked off his boots and drew on light shoes and leggings.

“Light marching orders for the rough places.  Confound that buckle.”

He rose and stamped his feet to settle the shoes.

“Your horse is at the door; that rascal Oscar will take off the blanket for you.  There’s a bottle of fair whisky in the cupboard, if you’d like a nip before starting.  Bless me!  I forgot the coffee!  There on the table, Oscar, and never mind the chairs,” he added as Oscar came in with a tin pot and the cups on a piece of plank.

“I’m taking the rifle, Oscar; and be sure those revolvers are loaded with the real goods.”

There was a great color in Armitage’s face as he strode about preparing to leave.  His eyes danced with excitement, and between the sentences that he jerked out half to himself he whistled a few bars from a comic opera that was making a record run on Broadway.  His steps rang out vigorously from the bare pine floor.

“Watch the windows, Oscar; you may forgive a general anything but a surprise—­isn’t that so, Claiborne?—­and those fellows must be pretty mad by this time.  Excuse the coffee service, Claiborne.  We always pour the sugar from the paper bag—­original package, you understand.  And see if you can’t find Captain Claiborne a hat, Oscar—­”

With a tin-cup of steaming coffee in his hand he sat on the table dangling his legs, his hat on the back of his head, the cartridge belt strapped about his waist over a brown corduroy hunting-coat.  He was in a high mood, and chaffed Oscar as to the probability of their breakfasting another morning.  “If we die, Oscar, it shall be in a good cause!”

He threw aside his cup with a clatter, jumped down and caught the sword from the table, examined it critically, then sheathed it with a click.

Claiborne had watched Armitage with a growing impatience; he resented the idea of being thus ignored; then he put his hand roughly on Armitage’s shoulder.

Armitage, intent with his own affairs, had not looked at Claiborne for several minutes, but he glanced at him now as though just recalling a duty.

“Lord, man!  I didn’t mean to throw you into the road!  There’s a clean bed in there that you’re welcome to—­go in and get some sleep.”

“I’m not going into the valley,” roared Claiborne, “and I’m not going to bed; I’m going with you, damn you!”