He stared at her. She was dressed in a wool jacket and boots, her hands in her pockets. A cloud of steam came from her mouth and nostrils. Her breast was rising and falling.
Silently, they looked at each other. At last Conger lowered the gun.
"What is it?" he said. "What are you doing here?"
She pointed. She did not seem able to speak. He frowned; what was wrong with her?
"What is it?" he said. "What do you want?" He looked in the direction she had pointed. "I don't see anything."
"They're coming."
"They? Who? Who are coming?"
"They are. The police. During the night the Sheriff had the state police send cars. All around, everywhere. Blocking the roads. There's about sixty of them coming. Some from town, some around behind." She stopped, gasping. "They said—they said—"
"What?"
"They said you were some kind of a Communist. They said—"