CHAPTER II
THE DEVIL'S OWN NIGHT
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.
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