And it was not until he was himself convinced that Dozier could take care of himself that he wrapped himself in his blankets and fell into a twenty-four-hour sleep. He awoke finally with a start, out of a dream in which he had found himself, in imagination, wakened by Scottie stooping over him. He had reached for his revolver at his side, in the dream, and had found nothing. Now, waking, his hand was working nervously across the floor of the shack. That part of the dream was come true, but, instead of Scottie leaning over him, it was the marshal, who sat in his chair with his rifle across his knees. Andrew sat up. His weapons had been indeed removed, and the marshal was looking at him with beady eyes. "Have you seen 'em?" asked Andrew. "Have the boys shown themselves?" He started to get up, but the marshal's crisp voice cut in on him. "Sit down there." There had been--was it possible to believe it?--a motion of the gun in the hands of the marshal to point this last remark. "Partner," said Andrew, stunned, "what are you drivin' at?" "I've been thinking," said Hal Dozier. "You sit tight till I tell you what about." "It's just driftin' into my head, sort of misty," murmured Andrew, "that you've been thinkin' about double-crossin' me." "Suppose," said the marshal, "I was to ride into Martindale with you in front of me. That'd make a pretty good picture, Andy. Allister dead, and you taken alive. Not to speak of ten thousand I dollars as a background. That would sort of round off my work. I could retire and live happy ever after, eh?" Andrew peered into the grim face of the older man; there was not a flicker of a smile in it. "Go on," he said, "but think twice, Hal. If I was you, I'd think ten times!" The marshal met those terrible, blazing eyes without a quiver of his own. "I began with thinking about that picture," he said. "Later on I had some other thoughts--about you. Andy, d'you see that you don't fit around here? You're neither a man-killer nor a law-abidin' citizen. You wouldn't fit in Martindale any more, and you certainly won't fit with any gang of crooks that ever wore guns. Look at the way you split with Allister's outfit! Same thing would happen again. So, as far as I can see, it doesn't make much difference whether I trot you into town and collect the ten thousand, or whether some of the crooks who hate you run you down--or some posse corners you one of these days and does its job. How do you see it?" Andrew said nothing, but his face spoke for him. "How d'you see the future yourself?" said the marshal. His voice changed suddenly: "Talk to me, Andy." Andrew looked carefully at him; then he spoke. "I'll tell you short and quick, Hal. I want action. That's all. I want something to keep my mind and my hands busy. Doing nothing is the thing I'm afraid of." "I gather you're not very happy, Andy?" Lanning smiled, and it was not a pleasant smile to see.