This man was sidling along into the street, scuffing his feet in the quick dragging movement of a boy who plays off base toward goal in some game of wits and speed, something in his movement of plain intent to deceive. His companion had backed up against the front of the barn, where he stood surly and watchful as if held at bay. His hand was near his gun, but not on it. They, also, were making a pretense of keeping within the law.
Dunham had been edging toward the barn door as he backed warily off, with a thought of dodging inside. That would put him out of sight of the man against the wall, and give him an even break. The opening was wide and high, cut to admit a wagon loaded with hay; the tall flimsy doors were folded back against the outside wall, one propped with a neckyoke, the other anchored against the wind by an old wagon wheel. A dash of six or eight feet would put Dunham inside.
How to make it was the question. He knew he would be throwing his life down if he turned his back an instant, and if he tried to crawfish that lanky man would let him have it where he lived. The fellow was watching to grab the slightest excuse for jerking out his gun, and this apparent desire to escape would give him all the grounds he needed to make a case. Sending his horse in ahead would look like part of a crafty ruse. The thought stopped Dunham in his tracks.
All this maneuvering had taken place in a very few seconds, so quickly, indeed, that the dust raised by Dunham's horse when it scurried into the barn still hung in the door. When Dunham stopped, the long
