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hand. Janice stared. "Where did you get that?" "It belonged to my father. Can
you shoot it?" "Yes," Janice said. She took the pistol. It was very heavy and
it was loaded. She carried it to her bunk and put it down. It they tried to
break in, that would be the time to use it. "Tom got away," Maggie
whispered. "Yes, but it's awfully cold away from the fire." Wind rattled
along the side of the van, moving a lantern that hung outside. They heard a
mutter of voices. Silently they waited in the dark wagon, making no sound,
huddled together with blankets around their shoulders. It was a long time
until morning. A hand tried the door, then pushed. After a moment footsteps
retreated and there was a further mutter of talk. The wind began to pick up.
Blown snow, frozen long since, rattled along the side walls. It was very
cold.... OUT IN THE DARKNESS Tom Healy crouched and shuddered with cold. He
had to have a fire. Much as he hated to move far from the wagons, he must have
a fire. There was nothing he could do here. And it was improbable that
anything further would be done tonight. He had seen Boyle try the door of the
women's van, swear, and turn away. The three men huddled close to the fire,
talking in low tones. Healy straightened stiffly and walked over the snow. A
half mile away, among some rocks and trees, he found shelter from the wind.
Shivering, he got sticks together and started a fire. He had no gun. He had
no weapon of any sort. The night wind blew cold, and his blaze dipped and
fluttered, then ate hungrily at the dry sticks. Doc Guilford was dead. The old
man had made his try and failed. Wycoff's wound was too slight to matter. In
the morning they would rifle the wagons. They would find the money belonging
to the show, but the other box might not be so easily found. It was sunk in a
compartment of the double bottom of the wagon. Maguire himself had suggested
the hiding place in his letter. They would also find the shotgun. The shotgun.
If he could get his hands on that shotgun. He considered the possibility as
the fire slowly warmed his cold muscles. His chances were slight, yet if he
got the shotgun he could handle that crowd. At close range it was hard to miss
with a shotgun. He had no experience on which to draw. His years began to
seem woefully wasted, for in this emergency he had nothing on which to base
his plans but remembered sequences of old melodramas or the stories of Ned
Buntline. Yet if he could creep close enough, if he could get into that
wagon... First he ,mst give them time to fall asleep. He fed fuel to his
fire, reflecting that if the fire did not keep him warm, getting fuel for it
would. Searching for wood, he found a hefty club. With that he felt better.
An hour passed slowly and he waited it out. His back was cold, his face too
hot, yet he felt better. He was no longer shaking, and he had a plan. When the
third hour had passed he left his fire burning and, taking the club, started
back to the wagons. Art Boyle dozed on a blanket near the fire. The others
had gone to sleep, as they usually did, in hastily built shelters near the
wagons. Healy waited, hoping Boyle would fall asleep, yet after several
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minutes he knew that he must act at once, before he grew too cold. The door
of the van where he had himself slept was close by. Neither Wycoff nor Barker
had moved in. The hinges were well oiled and they should not squeak. There
might be some frozen snow around the bottom of the door. Mentally he went
through every move. It would take four strides to cover the ground to the
door. All would be within plain view of the man by the fire. Once there, he
must open the door without noise, step completely inside, and reach under the
blanket where the shotgun lay. He must grasp it and turn, one hand on the
barrel, the other at the trigger guard. Once that turn was completed, he
would be reasonably secure. He would disarm Boyle and tie him up, and then he
would take Wycoff and Barker. One wrong move and he must shoot. If he failed,
he would be killed, and worse, Janice would be left without
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