Not even Lafe Corwin, watching him that day at Willets, knew how he had fought to overcome the driving desire to kill Warden, Singleton, and Antrim, as they had stood there on the platform.
His eyes chilled now, as he thought of Warden and the others.

He got up, his blood pulsing heavily, and started toward the fire.

He had reached it, and was standing before it, when he heard a sound at the door--a faint knocking, and a voice.
Davies and Harris were coming now.

They were cold, he supposed, had seen the light in the window--perhaps had tried the door; the wind drowning the noise so that he had not heard it before.

They were in a hurry to get in, to the warmth the cabin afforded.
He was in no hurry to let them in, and he walked deliberately to the table and stood beside it, his back to the fire, smiling ironically.
He heard no further sound, and he supposed the men had gone to the dugout to turn their horses into its shelter before again trying the door.
He was in a grimly humorous mood now, and he stooped, blew out the light and stepped toward the door, standing back of it, where it would swing against him when the men opened it.
He loosened the fastenings, stealthily.