The fat, stoical face of the squaw did not change expression, as she said: “Sure.”
Suddenly there came a sharp knock on the front door; a rat, tat, tat, as though some one struck the door with a hard object. They heard Prentice growl angrily and the couch creaked protestingly, as he heaved himself upright. Larry stepped to the doorway and watched Prentice pick up a gun from the table and go lurching toward the door. He fumbled for the knob, found it and yanked the door open.
Surging ahead he hooked the point of his left shoulder against the side of the doorway and stopped suddenly.
“This is Ayres, you dirty dog!” snapped a voice, and the next instant a gun spat fire twice from beside the little porch, while the echoes rattled back from the frame buildings across the street. Came the crash of a body falling on the porch—silence. Larry turned, white-faced, white-eyed, and stared at the squaw, whose lips were tightly shut, her eyes dilated a little.
Slowly she walked past Larry and went out to the porch. Larry didn’t follow her, but his wide eyes were glued on the front door, until she came back, softly closing the door behind her.
“Plenty dead,” she said slowly.
“Dead?” whispered Larry, almost choking over the word.
“Shot twice,” she said, nodding. “Die quick.”
“We—we ought to get the doctor,” faltered Larry.
“Doctor no good now; better get sheriff.”