There was no cry, no sound except a slight
movement in the dark. Westcott dropped to the floor, below the radius
of dim light thrown by the few embers left in the fireplace, and
revolver in hand, sought to distinguish the outlines of the window
frame. Failing in this, he crept noiselessly across the floor,
unlatched the closed door, and emerged into the open air.
It was a dark night, with scarcely a star visible, the only gleam of
radiance coming from a light across the gulch, which he knew burned in
the shaft-house of the La Rosita.
Everything about was still, with the intense silence of mountain
solitude. Not a breath of air stirred the motionless cedars.
Cautiously he circled the black cabin, every nerve taut for struggle,
every sense alert. He found nothing to reward his search--whoever the
coward had been, he had disappeared among the rocks, vanishing
completely in the black night. The fellow had not even waited to learn
the effect of his shot. He had fired pointblank into the lighted room,
sighting at Westcott's head, and then ran, assured no doubt the
speeding bullet had gone straight to the mark.
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