He smelled a mingling of wood and tobacco smoke; he heard low, deep voices of men; the shuffling and patting of cards; the musical click of gold.  Resting on his knees a moment the hunter deliberated.  All was exactly as he had expected.  Luck favored him.  These gamblers would be absorbed in their game.  The door of the cabin was just around the corner, and he could glide noiselessly to it or gain it in a few leaps.  Either method would serve.  But which he must try depended upon the position of the men inside and that of their weapons.

Rising silently, Wade stepped up to the wall and peeped through a chink between the logs.  The sunshine streamed through windows and door.  Jack Belllounds sat on the ground, full in its light, back to the wall.  He was in his shirt-sleeves.  The gambling fever and the grievous soreness of a loser shone upon his pale face.  Smith sat with back to Wade, opposite Belllounds.  The other men completed the square.  All were close enough together to reach comfortably for the cards and gold before them.  Wade’s keen eyes took this in at a single glance, and then steadied searchingly for smaller features of the scene.  Belllounds had no weapon.  Smith’s belt and gun lay in the sunlight on the hard, clay floor, out of reach except by violent effort.  The other two rustlers both wore their weapons.  Wade gave a long scrutiny to the faces of these comrades of Smith, and evidently satisfied himself as to what he had to expect from them.

Wade hesitated; then stooping low, he softly swept aside the intervening boughs of spruce, glided out of the thicket into the open.  Two noiseless bounds!  Another, and he was inside the door!

“Howdy, rustlers!  Don’t move!” he called.

The surprise of his appearance, or his voice, or both, stunned the four men.  Belllounds dropped his cards, and his jaw dropped at the same instant.  These were absolutely the only visible movements.

“I’m in talkin’ humor, an’ the longer you listen the longer you’ll have to live,” said Wade.  “But don’t move!”

“We ain’t movin’,” burst out Smith.  “Who’re you, an’ what d’ye want?”

It was singular that the rustler leader had not had a look at Wade, whose movements had been swift and who now stood directly behind him.  Also it was obvious that Smith was sitting very stiff-necked and straight.  Not improbably he had encountered such situations before.

“Who’re you?” he shouted, hoarsely.

“You ought to know me.”  The voice was Wade’s, gentle, cold, with depth and ring in it.

“I’ve heerd your voice somewhars—­I’ll gamble on thet.”

“Sure.  You ought to recognize my voice, Cap,” returned Wade.

The rustler gave a violent start—­a start that he controlled instantly.

“Cap!  You callin’ me thet?”

“Sure.  We’re old friends—­Cap Folsom!”

In the silence, then, the rustler’s hard breathing could be heard; his neck bulged red; only the eyes of his two comrades moved; Belllounds began to recover somewhat from his consternation.  Fear had clamped him also, but not fear of personal harm or peril.  His mind had not yet awakened to that.