“Just by sheer accident,” the man reported. “I see one party holding two horses just outside of town. Another man joined him afoot. One of ’em touched off a smoke, and in the flare of the match I made out that they was Wellman and Freel. They rode west.” “That’s downright unfortunate,” Mattison said. “But it don’t matter much. I was only wanting to see them to gather a little information they might be able to give. Another time will do just as well.” He turned and stared absently at the county attorney and that gentleman’s florid countenance turned a shade lighter. “Don’t matter,” the marshal repeated, rousing from his seeming abstraction. “Nothing of any importance.” He led his men from the lobby and rode west out of town. And out in the country toward which he was heading were Carver and Bart Lassiter, both prone in the grass a few yards apart and as many from Bart’s homestead cabin. “This is growing real tedious,” Bart stated. “Whatever leads you to suspect that they’re due to pay their call on just this particular night?” “They won’t if you keep on talking,” Carver returned. “If you keep quiet they might.” Bart lapsed into silence. He had already spent a long hour in his present location and would have preferred to be up and stirring about. Another twenty minutes dragged by and he was on the point of addressing Carver again when his intended utterance was cut short by a slight sound close at hand. Five more interminable minutes passed and he heard a single soft footfall a few feet away. Two dim figures approached the house and slipped silently to the door. The night was so black that they seemed but two wavering patches that merged with the surrounding obscurity. One tested the latch and the door opened on noiseless hinges. For a space both men stood there and listened. Then one entered while the other remained at the door. Carver spoke. “What was you expecting to locate in there?” he asked softly. The man in the door whirled and fired at the sound of his voice, the flash of his gun a crimson streak in the velvet black of the night. Carver shot back at the flash and Bart’s gun chimed with the report of his own. There was a second flash from the doorway but this time the crimson spurt leaped skyward for the shot was fired as the man sagged and fell forward. There was a splintering crash of breaking glass as the man inside cleared a window on the far side of the house. Bart shot twice at the dim figure that moved through the night, then rose to his feet intent upon following but Carver restrained him. “Let him go!” he ordered. “One’s enough!” “But just why the hell should I let Freel get away?” he demanded, pulling back from the detaining hand which Carver had clamped on his shoulder. “It’s Wellman. Freel’s there by the door,” Carver said. “How can you tell? It’s too black to see,” Bart insisted.