Outside a horse coughed, and then they both heard the unmistakable sound of hoofs on the hard-trodden door-yard.
Nan shrieked: "Some one—please—come!"
The door was pushed open and a moccasined foot thrust in the crack before Spiser could drop the catch.
"What the devil do you want?" he demanded harshly of the intruder.
"What the devil should I want, señor," returned a voice with equanimity, "but a place to stay all night?"
"Mrs. Gallagher!"
"Señor Spiser!"
The piercing black eyes of the apparition that had come out of the night seemed actually to disconcert Spiser with their boring gaze. She was tall, gaunt, and straight as a Lombardy poplar.
Her high cheek bones told of Apache blood, and two tight braids of black hair sprouting from under either ear shone with some ointment, the pungency of which seemed to tear holes in the atmosphere. Her bright-hued garments were neither distinctively Indian, or Mexican, but a little of each.
