“Where are we?” questioned Westcott.

“Just back of old Beecher’s shack.  He’s trucking down Benson way, but is liable to have some grub stored inside.  I was countin’ on this for our commissary department.  Come on, Jim; time is money just now.”

The door was unlocked, and they trusted wholly to the sense of touch to locate the object of their search.  However, as there were but two rooms, not overly stocked with furniture, the gloom was not a serious obstacle, so that in less than ten minutes they emerged once more into the open bearing their spoils—­Westcott, a slab of bacon and a small frying-pan; Brennan, a paper sack of corn meal, with a couple of specimens of canned goods.  He had also resurrected a gunny sack somewhere, in which their things were carefully wrapped, and made secure for transportation.

“Didn’t feel no terbacco, did yer, Jim?” the marshal questioned solicitously.  “I reckon not though; ol’ Beecher never would leave nuthin’ like that lyin’ round.  Well, Lord! we ought ter be thankful fer what we’ve got.  Now if we can only get away with them hosses.”

They wormed their way forward to the edge of the road through a fringe of bushes, Westcott laden with the bundle.  Except for the sound of distant voices and an occasional loud laugh, the night was still.  They could almost hear their own breathing, and the crackle of a dry twig underfoot sounded to strained nerves like the report of a gun.  Crouching at the edge of the road they could see fairly well what was before them, as revealed by the lights shining forth through the dingy windows of the saloon.  The Red Dog was not more than a hundred yards away, and seemingly well patronised in spite of the fact that its owner and many of his parasites were busily engaged elsewhere.  The wide-open front gave view of much of the barroom including even a section of the bar.  Numerous figures moving about were easily discernible, while up above in the gambling rooms, the outlines of men were reflected upon the windows.

A hum of voices echoed out into the night, but the platform in front of the door was deserted.  Occasionally some wanderer either entered or departed, merging into the crowd within or disappearing through the darkness without.  To the left of the building, largely within its shadow, stretched the hitch rail to which were fastened fully a dozen cow-ponies, most of them revealed only by their restless movements, although the few nearest the door were plainly enough visible in the reflection of light.  A fellow, ungainly in “chaps,” reeled drunkenly down the steps, mounted one of these and spurred up the road, yelling as he disappeared.  The noise he made was re-echoed by the restless crowd within.  The two men, crouched in the bushes, surveyed the scene anxiously, marking its every detail.  Brennan’s hand closed heavily on the arm of the other.

“We better pick out the two critters farthest from the light,” he muttered, “an’ trust ter luck.  We’ll have to lead ’em a ways afore we mount.  They’re XL outfit mostly, an’ that means fair stock.  Shall we try it, now?”