There was a cold breeze blowing as they rode back to the Double Bar 8, and the crimson glow of the rising sun painted the crests of the eastern hills, as they rode in at the stable and put up their horses.
“Well, it don’t look like any more dynamitin’ had been done since we left,” observed Sleepy, as they walked across the patio toward the rear door of the ranch-house.
“All is serene,” said Hashknife, and as he spoke Nanah came to the doorway.
The Indian woman was a pitiful sight. Her face was streaked with blood, her dress torn, and she staggered wearily.
“For —— sake!” gasped Hashknife. He took her by the shoulders. “What’s wrong, Nanah? What happened to you? Where’s Marion and Jimmy?”
There was blood on her hair, and Hashknife could see that a livid welt ran from her right temple and disappeared in her mop of disheveled black hair.
“I do’ know,” she choked. “Men come,” she brushed her hand across her eyes, as though to clear her vision. “Have rag on faces. Knock Jimmy down. Take Marion, go that way.” She leaned one shoulder heavily on Hashknife and pointed east.
“Yuh mean that masked men came and took Marion?”
She nodded dumbly. Hashknife led her to a chair and made her sit down. The room showed signs of a struggle, and there were a number of blood stains on the floor and walls.
“What does it mean, Hashknife?” queried Sleepy anxiously.