She opened the door. He stood on the threshold. Beyond him, indistinct in the gloom, were several cowboys.
“May I speak to you?” he asked.
“Certainly.” She hesitated a moment, then asked him in and closed the door. “Is—is everything all right?”
“No. These bandits stick to cover pretty close. They must have found out we’re on the watch. But I’m sure we’ll get you and your friends away before anything starts. I wanted to tell you that I’ve talked with your servants. They were just scared. They’ll come back to-morrow, soon as Bill gets rid of this gang. You need not worry about them or your property.”
“Do you have any idea who is hiding in the house?”
“I was worried some at first. Pat Hawe acted queer. I imagined he’d discovered he was trailing bandits who might turn out to be his smuggling guerrilla cronies. But talking with your servants, finding a bunch of horses upon hidden down in the mesquite behind the pond—several things have changed my mind. My idea is that a cowardly handful of riffraff outcasts from the border have hidden in your house, more by accident than design. We’ll let them go—get rid of them without even a shot. If I didn’t think so—well, I’d be considerably worried. It would make a different state of affairs.”
“Stewart, you are wrong,” she said.
He started, but his reply did not follow swiftly. The expression of his eyes altered. Presently he spoke:
“How so?”
“I saw one of these bandits. I distinctly recognized him.”