He went to the front door and swung his lantern idly to and fro, passing a glance at the wagons in which most of the landseekers were now asleep. Then he turned back, still swinging the light so that any one looking through the open portal might see him, and passed to the kitchen. There he blew out the lantern, turned about, and tiptoed to the front room. He took up the blanket, wrapped it around him and sat down behind the counter with his back to the shelves and his revolver in his hand. Presently he dozed off and dreamed of his boyhood in Pennsylvania. He seemed, after a time, to have trouble with his dream. It was winter and he was skating with his young companions on the ice. There was a crack in the middle of the pond and a danger sign pointing from it. But he felt as if he could safely dare that sign, so he skated to the very edge and turned away. He had been too bold. There was a sharp cracking of the ice and--he woke with both eyes fixed upward. The illusion of cracking ice had been made by a loose board creaking under a weight. Budd took a firmer grip on his gun and breathed softly. Again the board registered protest; not a loud sound, but enough to tell the storekeeper that the bait in his trap found a willing stalker. Something very slight swept over the counter surface and struck the cigar box with an audible tick. Budd made out a dark, moving shadow in the gloom. He hoisted his body with surprising celerity and quickly snapped the revolver forward. “Freeze right in yore tracks,” he commanded. “Hands above yore haid. Hurry now!” The command was not obeyed. Budd, peering closely, saw the intruder’s weapon arm streak downward. He moved aside and shook his head under the stunning crash of gun fire. A little finger of orange-blue momentarily flashed in his face. He jumped, and again the room shook under heavy echoes. The intruder let out a great breath of air as if he had been punched in the stomach, pawed at the counter and seemed to dissolve; first the gun struck the floor; then the body collapsed, muttering, “Got me, you sly ol’ fox.” All was still. Then the wagons came to life and a few landseekers ran up to the store; a lantern swung and winked. Budd lighted his own lantern and bent over the intruder. It was the man he had supposed--Sam, his long body sprawled awkwardly on the boards, his face white and wholly without expression, staring toward the storekeeper. He was dead. In falling he had pulled the cigar box with him, whose contents of greenbacks now scattered over the floor. The landseekers crowded into the room, and the assembled lanterns made a great light. It was a story too plain to need explanation, and in the silence Budd ventured his mild explanation. “I knew it was this feller all the time, and not Bill,” said he. “But I wasn’t plumb shore. So I arranged to let Bill escape and baited my trap with the money in the cigar box. Sam saw it and sprung the trap, shore enough.”