Allie’s joy was short-lived, and the reaction to disappointment was a violent, agonizing wrench. She lost all control of her muscles for a moment, and had to lean against the cabin to keep from falling.
By this time the foremost rider had pulled in his horse near the door. He was a young giant with hulking shoulders, ruddy-faced, bold-eyed, ugly-mouthed. He reminded Allie of some one she had seen in California. He stared hard at her.
“Hullo! Ain’t you Durade’s girl?” he asked, in gruff astonishment.
Then Allie knew she had seen him out in the gold-fields.
“No, I’m not,” she replied.
“A-huh! You look uncommon like her.... Anybody home round here?”
“Slingerland went over the hill,” said Allie. “He’ll be back presently.”
The fellow brushed her aside and went into the cabin. Then the other three riders arrived.
“Mornin’, miss,” said one, a grizzled veteran, who might have been miner, trapper, or bandit. The other two reined in behind him. One wore a wide-brimmed black sombrero from under which a dark, sinister face gleamed. The last man had sandy hair and light roving eyes.
“Whar’s Fresno?” he asked.