Hap Smith, the last to come in, opened the front door which the wind snatched from his hands and slammed violently against the wall.  In the sudden draft the old newspapers on one of the oil-cloth covered tables went flying across the room, while the rain drove in and blackened the floor.  Hap Smith got the door shut and for a moment stood with his back against it, his two mail bags, a lean and a fat, tied together and flung over his shoulder, while he smote his hands together and laughed.

“A night for the devil to go skylarkin’ in!” he cried jovially.  “A night for murder an’ arson an’ robbin’ graveyards!  Listen to her, boys!  Hear her roar!  Poke Drury, I’m tellin’ you, I’m glad your shack’s right where it is instead of seventeen miles fu’ther on.  An’ ...  Where’s the girl?” He had swept the room with his roving eye; now, dropping his voice a little he came on down the room and to the bar.  “Gone to bed?”

As one thoroughly at home here he went for a moment behind the bar, dropped the bags into a corner for safety and threw off his heavy outer coat, frankly exposing the big revolver which dragged openly at his right hip.  Bill Varney had always carried a rifle and had been unable to avail himself of it in time; Hap Smith in assuming the responsibilities of the United States Mail had forthwith invested heavily of his cash on hand for a Colt forty-five and wore it frankly in the open.  His, by the way, was the only gun in sight, although there were perhaps a half dozen in the room.

“She ain’t exactly gone to bed,” giggled the garrulous old man Adams, “bein’ as there ain’t no bed for her to go to.  Ma Drury is inhabitin’ one right now, while the other two is pre-empted by Lew Yates’ wife an’ his mother-in-law.”

“Pshaw,” muttered Hap Smith.  “That ain’t right.  She’s an awful nice girl an’ she’s clean tuckered out an’ cold an’ wet.  She’d ought to have a bed to creep into.”  His eyes reproachfully trailed off to Poke Drury.  The one-legged man made a grimace and shrugged.

“I can’t drag Lew’s folks out, can I?” he demanded.  “An’ I’d like to see the jasper as would try pryin’ Ma loose from the covers right now.  It can’t be did, Hap.”

Hap sighed, seeming to agree, and sighing reached out a big hairy hand for the bottle.

“She’s an awful nice girl, jus’ the same,” he repeated with head-nodding emphasis.  And then, feeling no doubt that he had done his chivalrous duty, he tossed off his liquor, stretched his thick arms high over his head, squared his shoulders comfortably in his blue flannel shirt and grinned in wide good humour.  “This here campoody of yours ain’t a terrible bad place to be right bow, Poke, old scout.  Not a bad place a-tall.”

“You said twice, she was nice,” put in old man Adams, his bleary, red rimmed ferret eyes gimleting at the stage driver.  “But you ain’t said who she was?  Now...”

Hap Smith stared at him and chuckled.

“Ain’t that jus’ like Adams for you?” he wanted to know.  “Who is she, he says!  An’ here I been ridin’ alongside her all day an’ never once does it pop into my head to ask whether she minds the name of Daisy or Sweet Marie!”

“Name’s Winifred Waverly,” chirped up the old man.  “But a name don’t mean much; not in this end of the world least ways.  But us boys finds it kind of interestin’ how she hangs out to Dead Man’s Alley.  That bein’ kind of strange an’ ...”

“Poh!” snorted Hap Smith disdainfully.  “Her hang out in that little town of Hill’s Corners?  Seein’ as she ain’t ever been there, havin’ tol’ me so on the stage less’n two hours ago, what’s the sense of sayin’ a fool thing like that?  She ain’t the kind as dwells in the likes of that nest of polecats an’ sidewinders.  Poh!”

“Poh, is it?” jeered old man Adams tremulously.  “Clap your peep sight on that, Hap Smith.  Poh at me, will you?” and close up to the driver’s eyes he thrust the road house register with its newly pencilled inscription so close that Hap Smith dodged and was some time deciphering the brief legend.

“Beats me,” he grunted, when he had done.  He tossed the book to a table as a matter of no moment and shrugged.  “Anyways she’s a nice girl, I don’t care where she abides, so to speak.  An’ me an’ these other boys,” with a sweeping glance at the four of his recent male passengers, “is hungrier than wolves.  How about it, Poke?  Late hours, but considerin’ the kind of night the devil’s dealin’ we’re lucky to be here a-tall.  I could eat the hind leg off a ten year ol’ steer.”

“Jus’ because a girl’s got a red mouth an’ purty eyes ...” began old man Adams knowingly.  But Smith snorted “Poh!” at him again and clapped him good naturedly on the thin old shoulders after such a fashion as to double the old man up and send him coughing and catching at his breath back to his chair by the fire.

Poke Drury, staring strangely at Smith, showed unmistakable signs of his embarrassment.  Slowly under several pairs of interested eyes his face went a flaming red.

“I don’t know what’s got into me tonight,” he muttered, slapping a very high and shining forehead with a very soft, flabby hand.  “I clean forgot you boys hadn’t had supper.  An’ now ... the grub’s all in the kitchen an’ ... she’s in there, all curled up in a quilt an’ mos’ likely asleep.”

Several mouths dropped.  As for Hap Smith he again smote his big hands together and laughed.

“Drinks on Poke Drury,” he announced cheerfully.  “For havin’ got so excited over a pretty girl he forgot we hadn’t had supper!  Bein’ that’s what’s got into him.”

Drury hastily set forth bottles and glasses.  More than that, being tactful, he started Hap Smith talking.  He asked of the roads, called attention to the fact that the stage was several hours late, hinted at danger from the same gentleman who had taken off Bill Varney only recently, and so succeeded in attaining the desired result.  Hap Smith, a glass twisting slowly in his hand, declaimed long and loudly.

But in the midst of his dissertation the kitchen door opened and the girl, her quilt about her shoulders like a shawl, came in.

“I heard,” she said quietly.  “You are all hungry and the food is in there.”  She came on to the fireplace and sat down.  “I am hungry, too.  And cold.”  She looked upon the broad genial face of Hap Smith as upon the visage of an old friend.  “I am not going to be stupid,” she announced with a little air of taking the situation in hand.  “I would be, if I stayed in there and caught cold.  Tell them,” and it was still Hap Smith whom she addressed, “to go on with whatever they are doing.”

Again she came in for a close general scrutiny, one of serious, frank and matter of fact appraisal.  Conscious of it, as she could not help being, she for a little lifted her head and turned her eyes gravely to meet the eyes directed upon her.  Hers were clear, untroubled, a deep grey and eminently pleasant to look into; especially now that she put into them a little friendly smile.  But in another moment and with a half sigh of weariness, she settled into a chair at the fireside and let her gaze wander back to the blazing fire.

Again among themselves they conceded, what by glances and covert nods, that she was most decidedly worth a man’s second look and another after that.  “Pretty, like a picture,” offered Joe Hamby in a guarded whisper to one of the recent arrivals, who was standing with him at the bar.  “Or,” amended Joe with a flash of inspiration, “like a flower; one of them nice blue flowers on a long stem down by the crick.”

“Nice to talk to, too,” returned Joe’s companion, something of the pride of ownership in his tone and look.  For, during the day on the stage had he not once summoned the courage for a stammering remark to her, and had she not replied pleasantly?  “Never travelled with a nicer lady.”  Whereupon Joe Hamby regarded him enviously.  And old man Adams, with a sly look out of his senile old eyes, jerked his thin old body across the floor, dragging a chair after him, and sat down to entertain the lady.  Who, it would seem from the twitching of her lips, had been in reality wooed out of herself and highly amused, when the interruption to the quiet hour came, abruptly and without warning.

Poke Drury, willingly aided by the hungrier of his guests, had brought in the cold dishes; a big roast of beef, boiled potatoes, quantities of bread and butter and the last of Ma Drury’s dried-apple pies.  The long dining table had begun to take on a truly festive air.  The coffee was boiling in the coals of the fireplace.  Then the front door, the knob turned and released from without, was blown wide open by the gusty wind and a tall man stood in the black rectangle of the doorway.  His appearance and attitude were significant, making useless all conjecture.  A faded red bandana handkerchief was knotted about his face with rude slits for the eyes.  A broad black hat with flapping, dripping brim was down over his forehead.  In his two hands, the barrel thrust forward into the room, was a sawed-off shotgun.

He did not speak, it being plain that words were utterly superfluous and that he knew it.  Nor was there any outcry in the room.  At first the girl had not seen, her back being to the door.  Nor had old man Adams, his red rimmed eyes being on the girl.  They turned together.  The old man’s jaw dropped; the girl’s eyes widened, rather to a lively interest, it would seem, than to alarm.  One had but to sit tight at times like this and obey orders....

The intruder’s eyes were everywhere.  His chief concern, however, from the start appeared to be Hap Smith.  The stage driver’s hand had gone to the butt of his revolver and now rested there.  The muzzle of the short barrelled shotgun made a short quick arc and came to bear on Hap Smith.  Slowly his fingers dropped from his belt.

Bert Stone, a quick eyed little man from Barstow’s Springs, whipped out a revolver from its hidden place on his person and fired.  But he had been over hasty and the man in the doorway had seen the gesture.  The roar of the shotgun there in the house sounded like that of a cannon; the smoke lifted and spread and swirled in the draft.  Bert Stone went down with a scream of pain as a load of buckshot flung him about and half tore off his outer arm.  Only the fact that Stone, in firing, had wisely thrown his body a little to the side, saved the head upon his body.

The wind swept through the open door with fresh fury.  Here a lamp went out, there the unsteady flame of a candle was extinguished.  The smoke from the shotgun was mingled with much wood smoke whipped out of the fireplace.  The man in the doorway, neither hesitating nor hurrying, eminently cool and confident, came into the room.  The girl studied him curiously, marking each trifling detail of his costume:  the shaggy black chaps like those of a cowboy off for a gay holiday; the soft grey shirt and silk handkerchief to match knotted loosely about a brown throat.  He was very tall and wore boots with tall heels; his black hat had a crown which added to the impression of great height.  To the fascinated eyes of the girl he appeared little less than a giant.

He stopped and for a moment remained tensely, watchfully still.  She felt his eyes on her; she could not see them in the shadow of his hat, but had an unpleasant sensation of a pair of sinister eyes narrowing in their keen regard of her.  She shivered as though cold.

Moving again he made his away along the wall and to the bar.  He stepped behind it, still with neither hesitation nor haste, and found the two mail bags with his feet.  And with his feet he pushed them out to the open, along the wall, toward the door.  Hap Smith snarled; his face no longer one of broad good humour.  The shotgun barrel bore upon him steadily, warningly.  Hap’s rising hand dropped again.

Then suddenly all was uproar and confusion, those who had been chained to their chairs or places on the floor springing into action.  The man had backed to the door, swept up the mail bags and now suddenly leaped backward into the outside night.  Hap Smith and four or five other men had drawn their guns and were firing after him.  There were outcries, above them surging the curses of the stage driver.  Bert Stone was moaning on the floor.  The girl wanted to go to him but for a little merely regarded him with wide eyes; there was a spreading pool on the bare floor at his side, looking in the uncertain light like spilled ink.  A thud of bare feet, and Ma Drury came running into the room, her night dress flying after her.

“Pa!” she cried wildly.  “You ain’t killed, are you, Pa?”

“Bert is, most likely,” he answered, swinging across the room to the fallen man.  Then it was that the girl by the fire sprang to her feet and ran to Bert Stone’s side.

“Who was it?  What happened?” Ma Drury asked shrilly.

The men looked from one to another of their set-faced crowd.  Getting only silence for her answer Ma Drury with characteristic irritation demanded again to be told full particulars and in the same breath ordered the door shut.  A tardy squeal and another like an echo came from the room which harboured Lew Yates’s wife and mother-in-law.  Perhaps they had just come out from under the covers for air and squealed and dived back again ... not being used to the customs obtaining in the vicinity of Drury’s road house as Poke himself had remarked.

Hap Smith was the first one of the men who had dashed outside to return.  He carried a mail bag in each hand, muddy and wet, having stumbled over them in the wild chase.  He dropped them to the floor and stared angrily at them.

The bulky mail bag, save for the damp and mud, was untouched.  The lean bag however had been slit open.  Hap Smith kicked it in a sudden access of rage.

“There was ten thousan’ dollars in there, in green backs,” he said heavily.  “They trusted it to me an’ Bert Stone to get across with it.  An’ now ...”

His face was puckered with rage and shame.  He went slowly to where Bert Stone lay.  His friend was white and unconscious ... perhaps already his tale was told.  Hap Smith looked from him to the girl who, her face as white as Bert’s, was trying to staunch the flow of blood.

“I said it,” he muttered lugubriously; “the devil’s own night.”