While he struggled there, gasping,
a man and a woman slipped past him.
"Tell him who we are," said the woman's voice. "We'll go to the
living-room, Buck, and start a fire."
The strangers apparently knew their way even in the dark, for presently he
heard the scraping of wood on the hearth in the living-room. It bewildered
Ben Swann. It was dream-like, this sudden invasion.
"Now, who the devil are you?"
A match was scratched and held under his very nose, until Ben shrank back
for fear that his splendid mustaches might ignite. He found himself
confronted by one of the largest men he had ever seen, a leonine face,
vaguely familiar.
"You Lee Haines!" he gasped. "What are you doin' here?"
"You're Swann, the foreman, aren't you?" said Haines. "Well, come out of
your dream, man. The owner of the ranch is in the living-room."
"Joe Cumberland's dead," stammered Ben Swann.
"Kate Cumberland."
"Her! And--Barry--the Killing at Alder--"
"Shut up!" ordered Haines, and his face grew ugly. "Don't let that chatter
get to Kate's ears. Barry ain't with her.
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