Abruptly she rose and walked quickly into her bedroom, returning in a moment or two with a little chamois case from which she drew a tiny twenty-two 296 caliber revolver, beautifully etched and silver-mounted, with a mother-of-pearl stock.
“Your uncle gave it to me many years ago and showed me how to use it,” she explained, laying it beside her plate. “I’ve never shot it off, but I see no reason why—”
She broke off with a gasp, and both women started and turned pale, as a harsh, metallic rattle rang through the room.
“What is it?” whispered Mary, half rising.
“The telephone! I can’t get used to that strange rattle. Answer it, quickly!”
Springing up, Mary flew across the room and took down the receiver.
“Hello,” she said tremulously. “Who is—Oh, Buck!” Her eyes widened and the blood rushed into her face. “I’m so glad! But where are you?... I see. No, they’re not here.... I know I did, but I thought—I wish now I’d told you. We—we’re frightened.... What?.... No, not yet; but—but there’s some one hiding in the loft over the harness-room.... I don’t know, but I saw a face at the window.... Yes, everything’s locked up, but—”
Abruptly she broke off and turned her head a little, the blood draining slowly from her face. A sound had come to her which struck terror to her heart. Yet it was a sound familiar enough on the range-land—merely 297 the beat of a horse’s hoofs, faint and far away, but growing rapidly nearer.
“Wait!” she called into the receiver, “Just a—minute.”
Her frightened eyes sought Mrs. Archer and read confirmation in the elder woman’s strained attitude of listening.