Then followed the leathery flop of saddles to the soft turf and the stamp, of loosened horses.
Jean heard a noise at the cabin door, a rustle, and then a knock of something hard against wood. Silently he moved his head to look down through a crack between the rafters. He saw the glint of a rifle leaning against the sill. Then the doorstep was darkened. Ellen Jorth sat down with a long, tired sigh. She took off her sombrero and the light shone on the rippling, dark-brown hair, hanging in a tangled braid. The curved nape of her neck showed a warm tint of golden tan. She wore a gray blouse, soiled and torn, that clung to her lissome shoulders.
“Colter, what are y’u goin’ to do?” she asked, suddenly. Her voice carried something Jean did not remember. It thrilled into the icy fixity of his senses.
“We’ll stay heah,” was the response, and it was followed by a clinking step of spurred boot.
“Shore I won’t stay heah,” declared Ellen. “It makes me sick when I think of how Uncle Tad died in there alone—helpless—sufferin’. The place seems haunted.”
“Wal, I’ll agree that it’s tough on y’u. But what the hell CAN we do?”
A long silence ensued which Ellen did not break.
“Somethin’ has come off round heah since early mawnin’,” declared Colter. “Somers an’ Springer haven’t got back. An’ Antonio’s gone.... Now, honest, Ellen, didn’t y’u heah rifle shots off somewhere?”
“I reckon I did,” she responded, gloomily.
“An’ which way?”