His widened nostrils had
stiffened, as though he would scent out these beings, and his eyes were
the alert eyes of an animal in the forest seeking its enemy through the
denseness of a black undergrowth.
The door was open, the soft step was at the threshold. The other step at
the corner of the house had stopped. In the new silence the cowboy could
hear his own deep, regular breathing. He could see nothing, he knew that
his body pressed against the tree trunk could not be seen, and his hands
were ready. He began to long for a pistol shot, for the spurt of red
fire, for anything that would mean certainty and would release the
coiled springs of his tense muscles.
But the still minutes dragged by and there was no certainty of anything
save that the some one at the door and the some one at the corner of the
house at Thornton's right were standing as still, as tense, as himself.
A little sense of the grim humour of this game three people were playing
in the dark, this Blind Man's Buff which he was waiting to understand,
drew his lips into a quick, fleeting smile.
Now at last came the first bit of certainty. The some one at the door
moved again, came to the steps and down into the garden, taking the
steps slowly, with long pauses between.
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