22

  In the darkness beneath the north windows of the hotel, Sinclairconsulted his watch, holding it close until he could make out the dimposition of the hands against the white dial. It was too early forCartwright to be in bed, unless he were a very long sleeper. SoSinclair waited.

  A continual danger lay beside him. The kitchen door constantly bangedopen and shut, as the Chinese cook trotted out and back, carryingscraps to the waste barrel, or bringing his new-washing tins to hang ona rack in the open air, a resource on which he was forced to fall backon account of his cramped quarters.

  But the cook never left the bright shaft of light which fell throughthe doorway behind and above him, and consequently he could not seeinto the thick darkness where Sinclair crouched only a few yards away;and the cowpuncher remained moveless. From time to time he looked up,and still the windows were black.

  After what seemed an eternity, there was a flicker, as when the wick ofa lamp is lighted, and then a steady glow as the chimney was put onagain. That glow brightened, decreased, became an unchanging light. Thewick had been trimmed, and Cartwright was in for the evening.

  However, the cook had not ceased his pilgrimages. At the very momentwhen Sinclair had straightened to attempt the climb up the side of thehouse, the cook came out and crouched on the upper step, humming ajangling tune and sucking audibly a long-stemmed pipe. Thequeer-smelling smoke drifted across to Sinclair; for a moment he was onthe verge of attempting a quick leap and a tying and gagging of theOriental, but he desisted.

  Instead, Sinclair flattened himself against the wall and waited.Providence came to his assistance at that crisis. Someone called fromthe interior of the house. There was an odd-sounding exclamation fromthe cook, and then the latter jumped up and scurried inside, slammingthe screen door behind him with a great racket.

  Sinclair raised his head and surveyed the side of the wall for the lasttime. The sill of the window of the first floor was no higher than hisshoulders. The eaves above that window projected well out, and theywould afford an excellent hold by which he could swing himself up. Buthaving swung up, the great problem was to obtain sufficient purchasefor his knee to keep from sliding off before he had a chance to steadyhimself. Once on the ledge of those eaves, he could stand up and lookthrough any one of the three windows into the room which, according tothe boy, Cartwright occupied.

  He lifted himself onto the sill of the first window, bumping his nosesharply against the pane of the glass.

  Then began the more difficult task. He straightened and fixed hisfingers firmly on the ledge above him, waiting until his palm and thefingertips had sweated into a steady grip. Then he stepped as far aspossible to one side and sprang up with a great heave of the shoulders.

  But the effort was too great. He not only flung himself far enough up,but too far, and his descending knee, striving for a hold, slipped offas if from an oiled surface. He came down with a jar, the full lengthof his arms, a fall that flung him down on his back on the ground.

  With a stifled curse he leaped up again. It seemed that the noise ofthat fall must have resounded for a great distance, but, as he stoodthere listening, no one drew near. Someone came out of the front doorof the hotel, laughing.

  The cowpuncher tried again. He managed the first stage of the ascent,as before, very easily, but, making the second effort he exceeded toomuch in caution and fell short. However, the fall did not include atoppling all the way to the ground. His feet landed softly on the sill,and, at the same time, voices turned the corner of the building besidehim. Sinclair flattened himself against the pane of the lower windowand held his breath. Two men were beneath him. Their heads were levelwith his feet. He could have kicked the hats off their heads, withoutthe slightest trouble.

  It was a mystery that they did not see him, he thought, until herecalled that all men, at night, naturally face outward from a wall. Itis an instinct. They stood close together, talking rather low. The onewas fairly tall, and the other squat. The shorter man lighted acigarette. The match light glinted on an oily, olive skin, and so muchof the profile as he could see was faintly familiar. He sent his memorylurching back into far places and old times, but he had no nerve forreminiscence. He recalled himself to the danger of the moment andlistened to them talking.

  "What's happened?" the taller man was saying.

  "So far, nothing," grunted the other.

  "And how long do you feel we'd ought to keep it up?"

  "I dunno. I'll tell you when I get tired."

  "Speaking personal, Fatty, I'm kind of tired of it right now. I want tohit the hay."

  "Buck up, buck up, partner. We'll get him yet!"

  Now it flashed into the mind of Sinclair that it must be a pair ofcrooked gamblers working on some fat purse in the hotel, come out hereto arrange plans because they failed to extract the bank roll asquickly as they desired. Otherwise, there could be no meaning to thistalk of "getting" someone.

  "But between you and me," grumbled the big man, "it looked from thefirst like a bum game, Fatty."

  "That's the trouble with you, Red. You ain't got any patience. How doesa cat catch a mouse? By sitting down and waiting--maybe three hours.And the hungrier she gets, the longer she'll wait and the stillershe'll sit. A man could take a good lesson out'n that."

  "You always got a pile of fancy words," protested the big man.

  Sinclair saw Fatty put his hand on the shoulder of his companion.Plainly he was the dominant force of the two, in spite of his lack ofheight.

  "Red, as sure as you're born, they's something going to happen thishere night. My scars is itching, Red, and that means something."

  Again the mind of Sinclair flashed back to something familiar. A manwho prophesied by the itching of his scars. But once more the danger ofthe moment made his mind a blank to all else.

  "What scars?" asked Red.

  "Scratches I got when I was a kid," flashed the fat man. "That's all.""Oh," chuckled Red, plainly unconvinced. "Well, we'll play the game alittle longer."

  "That's the talk, partner. I tell you we got this trap baited, and it's_got_ to catch!"

  Presently they drifted around the corner of the building and out ofsight. For a moment Sinclair wondered what that trap could be which thefat man had baited so carefully. His mind reverted to his originalpicture of a card game. Cheap tricksters, sharpers with the cards, hedecided, and with that decision he banished them both from his mind.

  There was no other sign of life around him. All of Sour Creek lived inthe main street, or went to bed at this hour of the early night. Theback of the hotel was safe from observance, except for the horse shed,and the back of the shed was turned to him. He felt safe, and now heturned, settled his fingers into a new grip on the eaves, and made histhird attempt. It succeeded to a nicety, his right knee catchingsolidly on the ledge.

  He got a fingertip hold on the boards and stood up. Straighteninghimself slowly, he looked into the room through a corner of the windowpane.

  Cartwright sat with his back to the window, a lamp beside him on thetable, writing. He had thrown off his heavy outer shirt, and he woreonly a cotton undershirt. His heavy shoulders and big-muscled armsshowed to great advantage, with the light and sharp shadows definingeach ridge. Now and then he lifted his head to think. Then he bent tohis writing again.

  It occurred to Sinclair to fling the window up boldly, and whenCartwright turned, cover him with a gun. But the chances, including hisposition on the ledge, were very much against him. Cartwright wouldprobably snatch at his own gun which lay before him in its holster onthe table, and whirling he would try a snap shot.

  The only other alternative was to raise the window--and that withCartwright four paces away!

  First Sinclair took stock of the interior of the room. It was largerthan most parlors he had seen. There was a big double bed on each sideof it. Plainly it was intended to accommodate a whole party, andSinclair smiled at the vanity of the man who had insisted on taking"the best you have." No wonder Sour Creek knew the
room he had rented.

  In the corner was a great fireplace capable of taking a six-foot log,at least. He admired the massive andirons, palpably of home manufacturein Sour Creek's blacksmith shop. It proved the age of the building. Noone would waste money on such a fireplace in these days. A little stovewould do twice the work of that great, hungry chimney. There were twogreat chests of drawers, also, each looking as if it were built up fromthe floor and made immovable, such was its weight. The beds, also, wereof an ancient and solid school of furniture making.

  To be sure, everything was sadly run down. On the floor the thin oldcarpet was worn completely through at the sides of the beds. Bothmirrors above the chest of drawers were sadly cracked, and the table atwhich Cartwright sat, leaned to the right under the weight of the armhe rested on it.

  Having thus taken in the details of the battle ground, Sinclair madeready for the attack. He made sure of his footing on the ledge, gave alast glance over his shoulder to see that no one was in sight, and thenbegan to work at the window, moving it fractions of an inch at a time.