She felt the light in the door darken, knew that some one was standing there. But something, subconscious, out of her new, dark world—something, she could not tell what—told her this was not Sim Gage.
She reached out her hand instinctively. By mere chance it fell upon the heavy revolver in its holster which Sim had hung upon the pole at the head of her bed. She caught it out, drew back into the room, toward the head of the bed, and stumbling into her rude box chair, sat there, the revolver held loosely in her hand. She knew little of its action.
She heard a heavy step on the floor, that did not sound familiar, a clearing of the throat which was yet more unfamiliar, a laugh which was the last thing needed. This man had no business there, else he would not have laughed.
"Who's there?" she called out, tremulously. "Who are you?" She turned on him her sightless eyes, a vast terror in her soul.
"Good morning," said a throaty voice. She could fairly hear him grin. "How's everything this morning? Where's your man this morning?"
"He's—just across in the meadows—he'll be back soon," said Mary Warren.
"Is that so? I seen him ten miles down the road just a while back. Now, look here, woman——"
He had come fully into the room, and now he saw in her lap the weapon. Half unconsciously she raised it.
"Look out!" he called. "It may be loaded. Drop it!"
"Come a step further, and I'll shoot!" said Mary Warren. And then, although he did not know that she was sightless, he saw on her face that look which might well warn him. Any ruffian knows that a woman is more apt to shoot than is a man.