Springing to her side, Johnson whispered tensely:
“Don’t answer—you can’t let anyone in—they wouldn’t understand.”
The Girl eyed him quizzically.
“Understand what?” And before he had time to explain, much less to check her, she was standing at the window, candle in hand, peering out into the night.
“Why, it’s the posse!” she cried, wheeling round suddenly. “How did they ever risk it in this storm?”
At these words a crushed expression appeared on Johnson’s countenance; an uncanny sense of insecurity seized him. Once more the loud, insistent pounding was repeated, and as before, the outlaw, his hands on his guns, commanded her not to answer.
“But what on earth do the boys want?” inquired the Girl, seemingly oblivious to what he was saying. Indeed, so much so that as the voice of Nick rose high above the other sounds of the night, calling, “Min-Minnie-Girl, let us in!” she hurriedly brushed past him and yelled through the door:
“What do you want?”
Again Johnson’s hand went up imperatively.
“Don’t let him come in!” he whispered.