I supposed them to be trappers, and, walking boldly to the door, I knocked.
Instantly the voices ceased.

There ensued absolute silence for a space, and then came-whisperings, and sounds of men quietly moving about the dirt floor.
"Who's there ?" called someone.
"A friend and a white man," I replied.
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.