His cheek went back to the stock of his rifle. He wanted to run out back and get the mountain man, but he didn’t know how far he’d have to go. And if he left the pack mules and all their equipment alone, even for a minute, everything might be gone by the time they got back.

No, he couldn’t leave. There was nothing else to do—he would simply have to stay and try to bluff them out.

Approximately thirty yards from the house, the two men stopped. They were about twenty feet apart, sitting their horses loosely, but both of their rifles were aimed in the general direction of the lean-to. Francis could make out their features easily. One of them was rather short and bearded. The other was lean, also bearded, fairly tall, and it was he who leaned forward in the saddle and called:

“Yo, the house! Anybody home?”

Francis said nothing. He watched.

“Up there! The house!” the man called again. “Anybody home?”

They were getting uneasy. Francis could tell by the way the lean one angled his rifle upward as he talked. Even at that range, the muzzle looked like a cave. Might as well say something, he thought, before they just fire away.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” he called, trying to make his voice sound gruff and older.

“Name’s Bridger,” answered the lean one. “Jim—to people who come into the light. This here’s my partner, Jake Barnes. And all we want is a little hospitality.”

Sure, thought Francis—you’re Jim Bridger and I’m Kit Carson. If you really are Jim Bridger, you sure wouldn’t just amble blind into a trap like this. How do you know I’m not an Indian? You could have been following anybody’s tracks.

“You lost your tongue in there?” the lean one yelled again. “I said that the name’s Bridger …”

“I heard you,” Francis answered. The man was lying. He was sure of it. He brought up the front sight of his rifle. It made him feel funny, aiming at a man. But he’d been caught off guard once—by Braid—and it wasn’t going to happen twice. “I’m not sure I believe it. Can you prove you’re Jim Bridger?”

“Prove? What’s to prove? I’m just sitting here, ain’t I? I said I was Bridger, didn’t I? What more do you need?”

There it was. He said he was Bridger, but Francis was positive he was lying, and so they were stalemated. There was nothing to do but wait for Mr. Grimes.

“If you’re really Jim Bridger,” Francis called, “you won’t mind just sitting there for a while—”

“What for?”

“Until—until somebody comes who can tell me if that’s the truth.”

“And what if I decide to ride off? Or come plowing at you?”

“I’ve got a gun on you.”