It held but a single occupant. Huddled in a chair on the further side of the long table was Mrs. Archer. Both hands rested on the polished oak, and clutched in her small, wrinkled hands was a heavy, cumbrous revolver, pointed directly at the door. Her white, strained face, stamped with an expression of hopeless tragedy, looked ten years older than when Buck had last seen it. As she recognized him she dropped the gun and tottered to her feet.
“Oh!” she cried, in a sharp, wailing voice. “You! You!”
In a moment Buck had her in his arms, holding her tight as one holds a hurt or frightened child. Mechanically he soothed her as she clung to him, that amazing self-control, which had upheld her for so long, snapping like a taut rope when the strain becomes too great. But all the while his eyes—wide, smoldering eyes, filled with a mingling of pity, of dread questioning and furious passion—swept the room searchingly.
Over the little lady’s bowed gray head his glance took in swiftly a score of details—the dead fire, the 308 dangling receiver of the useless telephone, a little pearl-handled revolver lying in a far corner as if it had been flung there, an upset chair. Suddenly his gaze halted at the edge of the shattered door and a faint tremor shook his big body. A comb lay on the floor there—a single comb of tortoise-shell made for a woman’s hair. But it was a comb he knew well. And as his eyes met Bud’s, staring from the doorway at the strange scene, they were the eyes of a man tortured.
CHAPTER XXXII
BUCK RIDES
Presently Mrs. Archer released her spasmodic grip on Stratton’s flannel shirt and fumbled for her handkerchief.
“I’m a fool to—to waste time like this,” she faltered, dabbing her eyes with the crumpled square of cambric.