“Bart has been up to some more financing,” he reflected. “While Molly was downtown somewhere, he was busy irrigating the Cherokee nation at a profit. I’ve heard somewheres that if you do any one thing better than your neighbors the world will beat a pathway to your door--and this path looks well-worn and much-traveled. I’ll have to speak to Bart about this.” He retired for the night after a third thirsty soul had made the pilgrimage down the pathway to the door. “Before I can straighten out Molly’s affairs,” he said, “it does look as if I’d have to discharge a marshal, reform one brother and practice homicide on another.” With this disquieting reflection he dropped instantly asleep. An hour later his awakening was equally abrupt. It is given only to those who live much in the open to wake suddenly from profound slumber with every faculty alert. When Carver opened his eyes he was conscious that something was amiss. He continued his regular deep breathing as if still wrapped in sleep. His horse fidgeted nervously in the lean-to shed behind; but he knew that this sound, being one to which he was accustomed, would not have roused him. The spring lock on the door had clicked slightly as if under the manipulation of a stealthy hand and the sound had penetrated his consciousness even while he slept. Probably another parched but hopeful Cherokee, he reflected, but he rose noiselessly and stepped to the window. “I didn’t start discharging and homiciding soon enough,” he told himself. Freel and Noll Lassiter stood outside in the bright moonlight, the latter having just stepped back within Carver’s range of vision after testing the spring lock on the door. Carver turned swiftly and donned shirt and trousers. The latch clicked again as he pulled on his chaps; then came a sharp knock at the door. Carver did not answer but finished buckling his belt and drew on one boot. The rap was repeated. “Ho!” Carver called loudly, as if suddenly roused from heavy sleep. “What’s going on?” “It’s Freel,” the deputy’s voice answered. “Oh,” said Carver. “Come on in. I’m in bed.” “Door’s locked,” Freel returned. “Must have blown shut,” Carver stated. “There’s a spring lock on it. Wait a minute and I’ll pile into some clothes and let you in. What do you want, anyway, at this time of night?” “There’s been complaints lodged against you for selling whiskey to the Cherokees,” Freel explained apologetically. “I don’t suppose there’s anything to it but I was ordered to make the arrest. You can clear yourself likely.” Carver laughed easily. “Why, man! This is the first time I’ve been here in two months,” he scoffed. “They won’t keep me overnight.” “I hope not,” said Freel. “It’s the pen if they cinch you--Federal law, you know. I didn’t like the idea of coming after you but I was ordered to do it.” “I’ll be with you in a minute,” Carver answered cheerfully. “I can explain it easy enough.”