There were other women on the street now, most of them Mexicans, so that Margaret attracted little attention. She moved up opposite the house that had become the scene of action, expecting every moment to hear the shots that would determine the fate of the victims.
But no shots came. Lights flashed from room to room, and presently one light began to fill a room so brilliantly that she knew a lamp must have been overturned and set the house on fire. Dunke burst from the front door, scarce a dozen paces from her. There was a kind of lurid fury in his eyes. He was as ravenously fierce as a wolf balked of its kill. She chose that moment to call him.
“Mr. Dunke!”
Her voice struck him into a sort of listening alertness, and again she pronounced his name.
“You, Miss Kinney—here?” he asked in amazement.
“Yes—Miss Kinney.”
“But—What are you doing here? I thought you were at Fort Lincoln.”
“I was, but I'm here now.”
“Why? This is no place for you to-night. Hell's broke loose.”
“So it seems,” she answered, with shining eyes.