Neal Taggart, sitting on a horse at the edge of the clearing, not over
twenty feet from him, was looking at him from behind the muzzle of a
six-shooter. At a trifling distance from Taggart was another man, also
bestride a horse. A rifle was at this man's shoulder; his cheek was
nuzzling its stock, and Calumet saw that the weapon was aimed at his
chest.
He rapidly noted the positions of the two, estimated the distance,
decided that the risk of resistance was too great, and slowly raised
his hands above his head.
"Surprise party, eh?" he said. "Well," he added in a self-accusing
voice, "I reckon I was dreamin' some."
Neal Taggart dismounted, moving quickly aside so that the man with the
rifle had an unobstructed view of Calumet. He went close to the latter.
"So it's you, eh?" he said. "We saw you tearin' up an' down the river
trail, when we was back in the timber a piece. Racin' your fool head
off. Nothin' in sight. Saw you come in here ten minutes ago. What
you doin' here?"
"Exercisin'," said Calumet; "takin' my midnight constitutional." He
looked at the man with the rifle.
The latter was hatless. Long gray hair, unkempt, touched his
shoulders; a white beard, scraggly, dirty, hid all of his face except
the beak-like, awry nose. Beady, viciously glowing eyes gleamed out of
the grotesque mask.
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