He needed no rubbing of eyes to rouse his senses. If a shower of cold
water had been dashed upon him he could not have rallied from sound
slumber so suddenly. His first movement was to snatch his gun from under
his mattress, not that he dreamed of needing it, but for some reason the
pressure of the butt against his palm was reassuring. It was better than
the grip of his friend--a strong man.
It was the first grey of dawn, a light so feeble that it served merely
to illuminate the darkness, so to speak. It fell with any power upon one
thing alone, the bit of an old, dusty bridle that hung against the wall,
and it made the steel glitter like a watchful eye. There was a great
dryness in the throat of Buck Daniels; and his whole big body shook with
the pounding of his heart.
He was not the only thing that was awake in the grey hour. For now he
caught a faint and regular creaking of the stairs. Someone was mounting
with an excessively cautious and patient step, for usually the crazy
stairs that led up to this garret room of the Rafferty house creaked and
groaned a protest at every footfall. Now the footfall paused at the head
of the stairs, as when one stops to listen.
Buck Daniels raised his revolver and levelled it on the door; but his
hand was shaking so terribly that he could not keep his aim--the muzzle
kept veering back and forth across the door. He seized his right hand
with his left, and crushed it with a desperate pressure.
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