Again, he heard the noise, three distinct tapping sounds, rhythmic and soft, barely audible over the whistling of the wind as it seeped in through various, previously undiscovered chinks in the walls of his modest abode. He stiffened, his resolve weakening. His faith, that the sounds were being caused by the winds, was diminishing, but still intact.
But the third time he heard the trio of taps, again soft, yet clear and intentional, his heart began to beat faster.
It was late evening, when all respectable persons would be home in bed...should be home in bed. The only creatures still stirring at this late hour were those frequenting one of the town saloons, or perhaps the marshal, who had long since acquired the habit of making late rounds, checking on the well-being of his comunity.
However, as Morrison knew, the marshal rarely came here, to visit him, at this time of night.
Never, in fact.
Rarely did the marshal call even during the daytime, and then only when necessity demanded it of him. So if it was not Marshal Weekes at the door, who was there...