The crook from the East was uneasy. He did not know why. His restlessness drove him to the door of the cabin from which he looked out upon a cynical moon riding high above the tops of the pines. He shivered. This bleak world of white appalled his city-cramped spirit. It had been bad enough in summer. Now it was infinitely worse. “Looks like there’s a hoodoo on me,” he growled. “It’s de Gawd-forsaken country that puts a jinx on me. I’m losin’ me noive. Every job I tackle is a flivver. After dis one, it’s me for de bright lights.” “That’s right. A getaway for you, pronto.” “When do we get busy?” “To-night,” Prowers answered. “Merrick has left two watchmen at the dam. One of ’em lives at Wild Horse. His wife’s sick. He got a call half an hour ago sayin’ she was worse. He’s hittin’ the trail for town.” “Leavin’ one guy on de job. Do we bump him off?” “Not necessary. A quart of bootleg whiskey reached him this afternoon. Time we get there, he’ll be dead to the world.” “You sent de booze?” “Merrick didn’t,” Prowers answered, with his impish grin. “Sure he ain’t on de wagon?” “Dead sure. He can’t leave it alone.” “Looks like a lead pipe,” Cig admitted. “But de jinx on me--When I gunned dat Tug Hollister I’d ’a’ swore I got him good. Nothin’ works.” Jake could not quite forbear sarcasm. “You’d ought to take one o’ these here correspondence courses in efficiency. It’ll be different to-night, though. I ain’t used to fallin’ down on anything I go after.” “Meanin’ that I do?” Cig demanded sourly out of the corner of a drooping mouth. “Meanin’ you ain’t been lucky lately. Let it go at that.” Prowers moved about making his preparations. The dynamite and the fuses already made ready were put in a gunny-sack. The tools were packed. Beneath his coat Jake put on a gaberdine vest, for it was possible that the weather might turn cold. Presently both men were ready. The cattleman blew out the light and they passed from the cabin into the starry night. They did not go direct to the dam. Prowers had in him too much of the fox for that. He would not leave tracks in the snow that might later take him to the penitentiary. Their footsteps followed the beaten trail that ran from the cabin to a road meandering down into Paradise Valley by the line of least resistance. Half a mile from the point where they struck it, another road deflected from this one, leading to Merrick’s camp at the Sweetwater Dam. Into this they turned. The snow had been beaten down by scores of passing feet. The top crust did not break beneath their weights, so that no evidence would be left written there as to who had made this midnight trip of destruction.