Tom stood still, making no attempt to remove his rifle from the small of the other’s back. He knew Hank Jamieson, and had always thought of him as a harmless, shiftless kind of fellow. But somebody had certainly shot through the cabin window at the dummy Tom had set up, and there was no one else around.
“What are you doing here?” he snapped.
“Not what you think, Tom.”
“How do you know what I think?”
“You think I fired that shot through the window. I didn’t—I swear I didn’t.”
“Who did?”
“I don’t know.” Hank Jamieson’s voice became suddenly fierce. “All I know is that I followed a man over here, hopin’ to get a shot at him! Night before last, that Black Elk tried to burn my cabin when my woman and kids was in it! It was only by luck alone I got ’em out, but when I did I saw two of the
