The door opened, and a big, ugly-looking fellow stood before me.
"Come in," he ordered.
I accepted the invitation with hesitation, but there was nothing else
to do. To retreat would have meant pursuit and probably death.
Eight of the most villainous-appearing ruffians I have ever set eyes
upon sat about the dugout as I entered. Two of them I recognized at
once as teamsters who had been employed by Simpson a few months before.
Both had been charged with murdering a ranchman and stealing his
horses. Simpson had promptly discharged them, and it was supposed that
they had left the country.
I gave them no sign of recognition. I was laying my plans to get out of
there as speedily as possible. I was now practically certain that I had
uncovered the hiding-place of a gang of horse-thieves who could have no
possible reason to feel anything but hostility toward an honest man.
The leader of the gang swaggered toward me and inquired menacingly:
"Where are you going, young man, and who's with you?"
"I am entirely alone," I returned. "I left Horseshoe Station this
morning for a bear hunt. Not finding any bears, I was going to camp out
till morning. I heard one of your horses whinnying, and came up to your
camp."
"Where is your horse?"
"I left him down the creek."
They proposed going for the horse, which was my only means of getting
rid of their unwelcome society.
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