Then he stepped within, and closed the door.
[Illustration: His Colt poised for instant action, he lifted the wooden latch.] At the slight sound the other leaped to his feet, overturning the stool, and whirled about swiftly, his right hand dropping to his belt.
"That will do, friend!" Hamlin's voice rang stern.
"Stand as you are--your gun is lying on the bench yonder.

Rather careless of you in this country.

No, I would n't risk it if I was you; this is a hair trigger." The fellow stared helpless into the Sergeant's gray eyes.
"Who--who the hell are you ?" he managed to articulate hoarsely, "a--a soldier ?" Hamlin nodded, willing enough to let the other talk.
"You 're--you 're not one o' Le Fevre's outfit ?" "Whose ?" "Gene Le Fevre--the damn skunk; you know him ?" Startled as he was, the Sergeant held himself firm, and laughed.
"I reckon there is n't any one by that name a friend o' mine," he said coolly.

"So you 're free to relieve your feelings as far as I 'm concerned.

Were you expecting that gent along this trail ?" "Yes, I was, an' 'twa'n't no pleasant little reception I 'lowed to give him neither.