After staking Blackleg out, he took the saddle and bridle from the
animal and stalked toward the ranchhouse. A light burned on the
kitchen table. He saw it from a distance and resisted an impulse to
enter the house from the kitchen, walking, instead, around to the
front, where he found the door to the office unbarred. He threw the
saddle into a corner, lighted the candle that still stood on the desk
where he had placed it the night before, and stood for a long time in
its glare, examining the ragged gashes on his arm. Twice during the
day he had washed the wounds with water secured from the river, binding
the arm with a handkerchief; but he noted with a scowl that the arm was
swollen and the wound inflamed. He finally rewound the bandage, tieing
the ends securely. Then he stood erect beside the desk, listening and
undecided.
No sound reached his ears. The Claytons, he assured himself, must have
retired.
He walked over to the sofa and sat upon it, frowning. He was hungry,
having been without food since morning, and he found himself wondering
if he might not find food in the kitchen. Obeying an impulse, he got
up from the sofa and went to the door through which Betty had entered
the night before, noting that it was still barred as he had left it
that morning. He carefully removed the fastenings and swung the door
open, intending to go into the kitchen.
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