“Asleep, I think. Tie him fast. This wind makes the beasts restless. Come right in.”
Not even a desert storm would be allowed to meddle with that interior. The room Innes entered was freshly dusted. It was glaringly ugly; neat and comfortable. Tiers of labeled boxes rose from a pine shelf; a motley collection of calico bags hung from hooks beneath.
“How did you get her here? How did you know?” demanded Innes.
“She told us herself. She must have crawled here.”
“Crawled! She was hurt, then!”
“Who told you? Where’d you hear it?”
“I met Mr. Busby. Was she hurt?”
“Did he find anything? Was he goin’ there or was he comin’ away? I guess there wasn’t much left with that roof fallin’ in.”
There was a sound from the room beyond. Mrs. Busby disappeared. A minute later, she beckoned from the darkened chamber. Innes crept in fearfully.
It was a terrible face that looked up from the pillow. A red gash had mutilated the cheek; the nose was scraped. Worse to Innes was the motion of the features—the eyelids, the lips, the chin were twitching the face into a horror. From the staring eyeballs, a crazed appeal shot up.