CHAPTER XXXI
ILL-FAVORED COMPANY
For an interval of ten seconds Crill stood like a man turned to putty, his mouth sagging as though it had suddenly lost muscular support, his babyish complexion changing to a sickly grayish hue. "Where—what the—?" he started to mutter, and then somehow failed to find the words to finish.
"You're wondering how I got here?" inquired the corporal politely. "I merely followed down through the pass. I didn't die under that fallen tree, as you probably supposed."
"What are you doing here?" the officer pursued as Crill continued speechless. "Locked yourself out, or something? What's inside that makes it worth so much trouble to reach the bar?
"Find out for myself if you're tongue-tied," he added after a moment of straining silence. With revolver in hand he moved forward and kicked the door panel with his heavy boot. "Hello!" he called out. "Anybody in there?"
As he paused to listen he caught a creaking sound within, light footsteps approached the threshold, and a faint, frightened voice spoke through the door. "Oh—who is it?" some one asked breathlessly.
It was a woman—Alison Rayne: and his eyes grew thoughtful as he recognized her voice. She had called to him, and the far cry in some wondrous manner had reached him when he stood at the head of the pass, miles away. A miracle had been wrought, and he could not guess its manner of accomplishment. He did not try, but turned to Crill with a direful glance.
"So—you were trying to cut your way through the door!" he said harshly. His fingers unconsciously tightened upon the butt of his gun, but after measuring the man up and down, he swung around to the cabin entrance. "Alison!" he called. "It's I—Dexter."
"Oh, thanks—thanks!" he heard the girl say in a half sobbing voice; then the bar was thrown up, the door opened, and Alison stumbled forward to meet him.
He looked searchingly into the blue eyes that lifted to his. "What happened?" he asked.