"Come to the counting-house. Becky, you come too. We must barricade the place. I'll run round and fasten up every door. They will have a tough job to get in," she murmured grimly.
How she thanked her father for the strong oak door! The oaken shutters with their massive iron clamps! It would seem as if he had expected a raid from bushrangers at some time or other in his life. The counting-house door was stronger than the others. She now understood the reason why. The room below had been taken into consideration when that door was put up.
It was three o'clock in the afternoon. A broiling, sun-baking afternoon. They were prepared, sitting, as it were, in readiness for the attack they were momentarily expecting.
It came at last. The voice that sounded outside the counting-house door took her back to the time when she was fifteen years of age. It was a strange, harsh voice, grating in its harshness, strange in being like no other. She remembered it to be the voice of the man that had challenged her father that memorable day—remembered it to be the voice of Wolfgang.
Like an evil bird of prey had he scented from afar the silver stored under the trap-door, just as he had scented the sum of money her father had hidden away in the house.
"It's no use your sheltering yourselves in there," said the voice. "We want to harm no one—it's against our principles. What we want is just the silver hidden under the counting-house, and we want nothing more."
With one finger upraised, cautioning silence, Kate saw for the twentieth time to the priming of her rifle—the very rifle that had shot Wolfgang's chief man four years before. There was no need for her to caution her companions to silence. They knelt on the floor—a huddled, trembling trio.
If only Kate could see how many men there were! But she could not.
"It will take them some time to batter in that door," thought she, "and by that time, who knows, help may come from some unexpected quarter."
"Do you dare to defy us?" said the voice again. "We know you are utterly helpless. Sam has been got out of the way by a cooked-up story, ditto your manager. They are both swearing in the broiling township by now." And the voice broke off with a loud "Ha! ha!"