“The store is on fire, Ma,” said Cale Wesson, joining them. “There goes everythin’ we own—almost.” “Well, we ain’t in it, Cale. There’s always somethin’ to be thankful for.” “Yeah, I reckon so, Ma. Don’t get too close, folks. There a drum of kerosene in there and a lot of ca’tridges. The kerosene will go straight up, I s’pose; but nobody knows which way all them shells are pointin’.” “I hope they’re pointin’ toward the jigger that set off that dynamite,” said Cale after a moment’s pause. “I don’t,” grunted Silent. “I want that pleasure m’self.” * * * * * For several minutes Brick and Harp remained motionless. The house was as silent as the tomb. Then Brick scratched a match, shielding it with his hands, as he reflected the light around. To the right of them was the rear door, while directly across the room was another window. Brick went to the door and locked it securely, crossed and looked at the window, finding it nailed down. Another match lighted them into the living-room, where they locked the front door and took stock of their surroundings. There was a candle in the neck of a bottle on the table, which Brick lighted. The front and side windows were nailed down and heavily curtained. “How’s the shoulder?” asked Brick. Harp flexed his arm carefully and grimaced a little. “It ain’t goin’ to stop me,” he declared. “But it sure had me guessin’. My shirt’s all blood, but the cut is sealed shut.” The Mostano family kept house in one room only. There was a rusty cook-stove, on which was a greasy looking stew-kettle and a battered frying-pan. A home-made table fitted into one corner, on which was piled the rest of their utensils. In the other corner was a built-in bunk, with a collection of tumbled blankets. The floor was filthy and the air was filled with odors of long-departed food. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling in profusion. “Ugh!” grunted Harp disgustedly. “What a place to live!” “Yeah, that’s right,” grinned Brick. “And what a place to die.” Harp laughed and laid his six-shooter across his knees, as he tried to roll a cigaret. “Let me do that,” said Brick. “Yore hand ain’t workin’ so good.” He reached for the tobacco and papers and had just started to roll the cigaret, when a peculiar noise sent both of them onto the floor, clutching their guns. Swiftly their eyes searched everywhere and came back to each other’s faces. “What the —— was that?” whispered Harp. Brick shook his head. Then it came again— “Yea-a-a-a.” Brick squinted at the bunk. There was a curious expression in his eyes, as he turned and looked at Harp. Then he got to his feet and strode across the room to the bunk. “C’mere,” he whispered to Harp, who went over to him. Brick threw back the blanket, disclosing a little copper-colored baby about a year old, possibly less. The little one was looking up at them with its round, black eyes. Then it grinned widely and kicked both feet up against the blanket.