knob out of Ben's grip, flattening Ben himself against the wall. 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. Only his kid. Now stir about.”
After the first surprise was over, Ben Swann did very well. He found the fire already started in the living-room and on the rug before the hearth a yellow-
