The Sergeant stole along the front to the door, listening intently for any warning sound from either without or within.  Every nerve was on edge; all else forgotten except the intensity of the moment.  He could perceive nothing to alarm him, no evidence of any presence inside.  Slowly, noiselessly, his Colt poised for instant action, he lifted the wooden latch, and permitted the door to swing slightly ajar, yielding a glimpse within.  There was light from above, flittering dimly through some crevice in the bluff, and the darker shadows were reddened by the cheery glow of a fireplace directly opposite, although where the smoke disappeared was not at first evident.  Hamlin perceived these features at a glance, standing motionless.  His quick eyes visioned the whole interior—­a rude table and bench, a rifle leaning in one corner, a saddle and trappings hanging against the wall; a broad-brimmed hat on the floor, a pile of skins beyond.  There was an appearance of neatness also, the floor swept, the table unlittered.  Yet he scarcely realized these details at the time so closely was his whole attention centred on the figure of a man.  The fellow occupied a stool before the fireplace, and was bending slightly forward, staring down at the red embers, unconscious of the intruder.  He was a thin-chested, unkempt individual with long hair, and shaggy whiskers, both iron gray.  The side of his face and neck had a sallow look, while his nose was prominent.  The Sergeant surveyed him a moment, his cocked revolver covering the motionless figure, his lips set grimly.  Then he stepped within, and closed the door.

[Illustration:  His Colt poised for instant action, he lifted the wooden latch.]

At the slight sound the other leaped to his feet, overturning the stool, and whirled about swiftly, his right hand dropping to his belt.

“That will do, friend!” Hamlin’s voice rang stern.

“Stand as you are—­your gun is lying on the bench yonder.  Rather careless of you in this country.  No, I would n’t risk it if I was you; this is a hair trigger.”

The fellow stared helpless into the Sergeant’s gray eyes.

“Who—­who the hell are you?” he managed to articulate hoarsely, “a—­a soldier?”

Hamlin nodded, willing enough to let the other talk.

“You ’re—­you ‘re not one o’ Le Fevre’s outfit?”

“Whose?”

“Gene Le Fevre—­the damn skunk; you know him?”

Startled as he was, the Sergeant held himself firm, and laughed.

“I reckon there is n’t any one by that name a friend o’ mine,” he said coolly.  “So you ’re free to relieve your feelings as far as I ’m concerned.  Were you expecting that gent along this trail?”

“Yes, I was, an’ ’twa’n’t no pleasant little reception I ’lowed to give him neither.  Say!  Would n’t yer just as soon lower thet shootin’ iron?  We ain’t got no call to quarrel so fur as I kin see.”