But Jeff was no longer there. There had been a simultaneous clatter of
falling bunk boards. There was the rustling of straw. Then a sound of
scrambling, and, after that, a dead silence. The darkness was complete
except for the faint silhouette of the windows against the dim
starlight beyond them.
Jeff had taken the big chance. What remained now must be met as
circumstance permitted. The blood in him was fired. The savage
delight of battle. He would sell the last breath in his body at the
highest price he could make his enemies pay. He had walked into a trap
laid by the rustlers, headed, perhaps, by Sikkem Bruce, with his eyes
wide open, and some almost insane yearning made him glad.
Now he crouched down against the wall beside the table. He had flung
up a barrier of straw palliasse before him. It was not as a protection
against gun-fire, but to screen his movements should his opponents
produce a light. Then, too, there was another thought in his mind.
The place became alive with sounds, voiceless, muffled sounds of
cautious movement.
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