He waited, the gun in his hands.  He did not think of supper.  He did not realize that he was cold, or hungry, or that as the evening wore on his tortured muscles cried out for rest.  The sight of Hank Brown talking intimately with Marion—­allied with the spies, as Mike’s warped reason interpreted the meeting—­had given him the feeling that he was hedged about with deadly foes.  The sudden eagerness which Marion had shown when she saw him, and the way she had run after him, to him meant nothing less than an attempt to capture him then and there.  They would come to the cabin when he was asleep—­he was sure of it.  So he did not intend to sleep at all.  He would watch for them with the gun.  He guessed they didn’t know he had a gun, because he never used it unless he went hunting.  And since the county was filled up with spies on the government he was too cute to let them catch him hunting out of season.

He waited and he waited.  After a long while he backed to the bed and sat down, but he kept the gun pointed toward the door and the window.  A skunk came prowling through the trampled snow before the cabin, hunting food where Mike had thrown out slops from the cooking.  It rattled a tin can against a half-buried rock, and Mike was on his feet, shaking with cold and excitement.

“Oh, I c’n hear yuh, all right!” he shouted fiercely, not because he was brave, but because he was scared and could not await calmly the next move.  “Don’t yuh come around here, er I’ll shoot!”

In a minute he thought he heard stealthy footsteps nearing the door, and without taking any particular aim he lifted the hammer of the gun and pulled the trigger, in a panicky instinct to fight.  The odor that assailed his nostrils reassured him suffocatingly.  It was not the spies after all.

He put down the gun then, convinced that if the spies had been hanging around, they would know now that he was ready for them, and would not dare tackle him that night.  He felt vaingloriously equal to them all.  Let them come!  He’d show ’em a thing or two.

Groping in the dark to the old cookstove, Mike raked together the handful of pitch-pine shavings which he had whittled that morning for his dinner fire.  He reached up to the shelf where the matches were kept, lighted the shavings, laid them carefully in the firebox and fed the little blaze with dry splinters.  He placed wood upon the crackling pile, rattled the stove-lids into place and crouched shivering beside the stove, trying to absorb some warmth into his chilled old bones.  He opened the oven door, hitched himself closer and thrust his numbed feet into the oven.  He sat there mumbling threats and puny warnings, and so coaxed a little warmth into his courage as well as his body.

So he passed the rest of that night, huddled close to the stove, hearing the murmur of his enemies in the uneasy swashing together of the pine branches overhead, reading a signal into every cry of the animals that prowled through the woods.  The harsh squall of a mountain lion, somewhere down the creek, set him shivering.  He did not believe it was a mountain lion, but the call of those who watched his cabin.  So daylight found him mumbling beside the stove, his old rifle across his knees with the muzzle pointing toward the nailed door.