the "pokes," leaping into the back room. In another instant he
returned with them and faced desperately the candid bareness of
the little room that they lived and slept in. Nothing could be
hidden; it was folly to think of it. There was a loft overhead, he
remembered, hopefully, then realized that the pursuers would
search there first of all.

"I told you he was a hard fighter," said Dextry, as the quick
footsteps grew louder. "He ain't no fool neither. 'Stead of our
bein' caught in the mountains, I reckon we'll shoot it out here.
We should have cached that gold somewhere."

He spun the cylinder of his blackened Colt, while his face grew
hard and vulture-like.

Meanwhile, Cherry Malotte watched the hunted look in Glenister's
face grow wilder and then stiffen into the stubbornness of a man
at bay. The posse was at the door now, knocking. The three inside
stood rigid and strained. Then Glenister tossed his burden on the
bed.

"Go into the back room, Cherry; there's going to be trouble."

"Who's there?" inquired Dextry through the door, to gain time.
Suddenly, without a word, the girl glided to the hot-blast heater,
now cold and empty, which stood in a corner of the room. These
stoves, used widely in the North, are vertical iron cylinders into
which coal is poured from above. She lifted the lid and peered in
to find it a quarter full of dead ashes, then turned with shining
eyes and parted lips to Glenister. He caught the hint, and in an