The four moved excitedly toward the door.
“I said so!” cried one of the men. “Just what I told you. He sneaked into the woods somewhere, and we rode past him. Then he doubled back.”
“Wounded, hey?” said another. “My shots don’t miss. I knew I winged him. If we can get another mile or two of speed out of those nags, we may overhaul him yet.”
Three of the men were at the door. The fourth, following, paused to light a cheroot by one of the candles on the table.
As he was starting on after the others, he came to a sudden stop. His exclamation brought the three bushwhackers back into the hall. The man pointed melodramatically at a little pool of drying blood on the polished hardwood floor in the full glare of the candlelight. Beside the pool lay a Federal infantry cap.
There was no need for words. The story told itself. The four men with one accord turned on Mrs. Sessions.
She had, as though by sheer chance, taken up a position at the stair foot. And there she stood; magnificently futile and as futilely magnificent as a sparrow that bars a prowling tomcat’s way to her nest.
“Well,” she demanded shrilly, “what are you going to do about it?”
“Do?” laughed the drunkest of the four. “Root him out, of course. And you’re li’ble to keep your hair tidier if you’ll take us straight off to where you’ve hid him.”
“I’ve told you twice to get out of here,” she replied, not a faintest trace of fear in her authoritative voice. “And now I tell—”