The short winter day was drawing to its close. The sun was sinking slowly behind the Coast Range, having dropped suddenly from under a rack of clouds for its first smile of the day before seeking its bed in the mystic west.
Then two horsemen galloped easily from a short pass through a chain of half-hearted buttes that barely broke the monotony of the level desert on the road from Tanburt Ranch to Britton. The first horse shied and snorted, almost unseating its rider. The second, frightened by the action of the first, reared on its hind legs and wheeled.
An apparition suddenly had confronted the little party. Mary Temple, gaunt and severe of mien, had appeared uncannily in the middle of the road, with a leveled Winchester at her shoulder.
“Up!” she commanded acidly, as the horses came to a dancing halt. “Quick! Climb the ladder, both of you! Don’t make a mistake. I’ve killed my man.”
Then the hammer clicked icily as she cocked it in the desert stillness.
That was the master stroke of the whole performance—that ominous click that followed her unimpassioned command. It was psychological. Leach and Morley thrust their hands above their heads and grinned uncomfortably.
“Henry! Morley has a six-gun on his hip. Get it. Morley, let him get it. I’m telling you the God’s truth when I say I’ll pull the trigger if you move a hand. Damn you, anyway—I’d as soon take a crack at you as break an egg!”
“Wh-why, Miss Temple!” gasped Smith Morley.
“Shocked, eh? Well, if you’d seen me when I ran the Silver Fox Dance Hall in Alaska, ten or eleven years ago, you’d know who you’re dealing with. But if you want to take a chance—Henry!”
“Yes’m—here I am.”