Whispering Smith
her husband’s death in that encounter, if it ever came, be other than a stain that must shock and wound her, no matter how much she should try not to see. Could either of them ever quite forget it?
Kennedy and his men were guarding the Cache. Could they be sent against Sinclair? That would be only a baser sort of murder—the murder of his friends. He himself was leader, and so looked upon; the post of danger was his.
He raised his head. Through the window came a faint light. The moon was rising, and against the inner wall of the room the straight, hard lines of the old wardrobe rose dimly. The rifles were within. He must choose.
He walked to the window and pushed the curtain aside. It was dark everywhere across the upper town, but in the distance one light burned. It was in Marion’s cottage. He had chosen this room because from the window he could see her home. He stood for a few moments with his hands in his pockets, looking. When he turned away he drew the shade closely, lighted a lamp, and unlocked the wardrobe door.
Scott left the barn at half-past ten with a led horse for Whispering Smith. He rode past
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