His feet were on the floor as he sat on the edge of the bed preparatory to standing, when he saw the door at the head of the stairs slowly swing open and a figure of a man appear in the opening.

The light in the room was faint—­a mere luminous star-mist—­hut Maison could see clearly the man’s face.  He stiffened, his hands gripping the bedclothing, as he muttered hoarsely: 

“Sanderson!”

Sanderson stepped into the room and closed the door.  The heavy six-shooter in his hand was at his hip, the long barrel horizontal, the big muzzle gaping forebodingly into Maison’s face.  There was a cold, mirthless grin on Sanderson’s face, but it seemed to Maison that the grin was the wanton expression of murder lust.

He knew, without Sanderson telling him, that if he moved, or made the slightest outcry, Sanderson would kill him.

Therefore he made neither move nor sound, but sat there, rigid and gasping for breath, awaiting the other’s pleasure.

Sanderson came close to him, speaking in a vibrant whisper: 

“Anyone in the house with you?  If you speak above a whisper I’ll blow you apart!”

“I’m alone!” gasped Maison.

Sanderson laughed lowly.  “You must have known I was comin’.  Did you expect me?  Well—­” when Maison did not answer—­“you left the rear door open.  Obliged to you.

“You know what I came for?  No?” His voice was still low and vibrant.  “I came to talk over what happened at Devil’s Hole.”

Maison’s eyes bulged with horror.

“I see you know about it, all right.  I’m glad of that.  Seven men murdered; three thousand head of cattle gone.  Mebbe they didn’t all go into the quicksand—­I don’t know.  What I do know is this:  they’ve got to be paid for—­men an’ cattle.  Understand?  Cattle an’ men.”

The cold emphasis he laid on the “and” made a shiver run over the banker.

“Money will pay for cattle,” went on Sanderson.  “I’ll collect a man for every man you killed at Devil’s Hole.”

He laughed in feline humor when Maison squirmed at the words.

“You think your life is more valuable than the life of any one of the men you killed at Devil’s Hole, eh?  Soapy was worth a hundred like you!  An’ Sogun—­an’ all the rest!  Understand?  They were real men, doin’ some good in the world.  I’m tellin’ you this so you’ll know that I don’t think you amount to a hell of a lot, an’ that I wouldn’t suffer a heap with remorse if you’d open your trap for one little peep an’ I’d have to blow your guts out!”

A devil of conscience had finally visited Maison—­a devil in the flesh.  For all the violent passions were aflame in Sanderson’s face, repressed but needing only provocation to loose them.

Maison knew what impended.  But he succeeded in speaking, though the words caught, stranglingly, in his throat: 

“W-what do you—­want?”