“Nice to talk to, too,” returned Joe’s companion, something of the pride of ownership in his tone and look.  For, during the day on the stage had he not once summoned the courage for a stammering remark to her, and had she not replied pleasantly?  “Never travelled with a nicer lady.”  Whereupon Joe Hamby regarded him enviously.  And old man Adams, with a sly look out of his senile old eyes, jerked his thin old body across the floor, dragging a chair after him, and sat down to entertain the lady.  Who, it would seem from the twitching of her lips, had been in reality wooed out of herself and highly amused, when the interruption to the quiet hour came, abruptly and without warning.

Poke Drury, willingly aided by the hungrier of his guests, had brought in the cold dishes; a big roast of beef, boiled potatoes, quantities of bread and butter and the last of Ma Drury’s dried-apple pies.  The long dining table had begun to take on a truly festive air.  The coffee was boiling in the coals of the fireplace.  Then the front door, the knob turned and released from without, was blown wide open by the gusty wind and a tall man stood in the black rectangle of the doorway.  His appearance and attitude were significant, making useless all conjecture.  A faded red bandana handkerchief was knotted about his face with rude slits for the eyes.  A broad black hat with flapping, dripping brim was down over his forehead.  In his two hands, the barrel thrust forward into the room, was a sawed-off shotgun.

He did not speak, it being plain that words were utterly superfluous and that he knew it.  Nor was there any outcry in the room.  At first the girl had not seen, her back being to the door.  Nor had old man Adams, his red rimmed eyes being on the girl.  They turned together.  The old man’s jaw dropped; the girl’s eyes widened, rather to a lively interest, it would seem, than to alarm.  One had but to sit tight at times like this and obey orders....

The intruder’s eyes were everywhere.  His chief concern, however, from the start appeared to be Hap Smith.  The stage driver’s hand had gone to the butt of his revolver and now rested there.  The muzzle of the short barrelled shotgun made a short quick arc and came to bear on Hap Smith.  Slowly his fingers dropped from his belt.

Bert Stone, a quick eyed little man from Barstow’s Springs, whipped out a revolver from its hidden place on his person and fired.  But he had been over hasty and the man in the doorway had seen the gesture.  The roar of the shotgun there in the house sounded like that of a cannon; the smoke lifted and spread and swirled in the draft.  Bert Stone went down with a scream of pain as a load of buckshot flung him about and half tore off his outer arm.  Only the fact that Stone, in firing, had wisely thrown his body a little to the side, saved the head upon his body.