To his anger and chagrin the head broke off. Before he could snatch up another and strike it viciously, there came from close at hand a sudden rustle, a creak, the clatter of something on the floor, followed by dead silence. When the light flared up, illumining dimly almost the whole length of the room, there was nothing in the least suspicious to be seen.
Nevertheless, with inward cursing, Stratton sprang up and lit the lamp he had used early in the evening and which he had purposely left within reach. With this added illumination he made a discovery that brought his lips together in a grim line.
Someone lay stretched out in the bunk next to his own--Jessup's bunk, which had been empty when he went to bed.
For a fleeting instant Buck wondered whether Bud could possibly have returned and crawled in there unheard. Then, as the wick flared up, he not only realized that this couldn't have happened, but recognized lying on the youngster's rolled-up blankets the stout figure and round, unshaven face of--Slim McCabe.
As he stood staring at the fellow, there was a stir from further down the room and a sleepy voice growled:
"What's the matter? It ain't time to get up yet, is it?"
Buck, who had just caught a glint of steel on the floor at the edge of the bunk, pulled himself together.
"No; I--I must have had a--nightmare," he returned in a realistically dazed tone. "I was dreaming about--rustlers, and thought I heard somebody walking around."
Still watching McCabe surreptitiously, he saw the fellow's lids lift sleepily.
"W'a's matter?" murmured Slim, blinking at the lamp.
"Nothing. I was dreaming. What the devil are you doing in that bunk?"
McCabe appeared to rouse himself with an effort and partly sat up, yawning prodigiously.
"It was hot in my own, so I come over here to get the air from the window," he mumbled. "What's the idea of waking a guy up in the middle of the night?"
Buck did not answer for a moment but, stepping back, trod as if by accident on the end of his trailing blanket. As he intended, the movement sent his holster and belt tumbling to the floor, and with perfect naturalness he stooped to pick them up. When he straightened, his face betrayed nothing of the grim satisfaction he felt at having proved his point. The bit of steel was a hunting-knife with a seven-inch blade, sharp as a razor, and with a distinctive stag-horn handle, which Tex Lynch had used only a few evenings before to remove the skin from a coyote he had brought down.