it. For her part, she was busy and could not spare time to gossip. At that she stepped back and kicked the door shut with a slam that set the whole side of the shack shivering.
At that moment Andrew wondered what he would have done those few months—those few lifetimes—when he lived in Martindale if he had been treated in such a manner. He would have crimsoned to the eyes, no doubt, and fled from the virago. But now he felt neither embarrassment nor fear nor anger. He drew his revolver, and with the heavy butt banged loudly on the door. It left three deep dents in the wood, and the door was kicked open again. But this time he saw only the foot of the woman clad in a man's boot. The door remained open, but the hostess kept out of view.
"You be ridin' on, friend," she called in her harsh voice. "Bud, keep out'n the kitchen. Stranger, you be ridin' on. I don't know you and I don't want to know you. A man that beats on doors with his gun!"
Andrew laughed, and the sound brought her into view, a furious face, but a curious face as well. She carried a long rifle slung easily under her stout arm. There was the strength of a man in her shoulders and the readiness of a man about her hands.
"What d'you want with Garry?" she asked.
And he replied with a voice equally hard: "I want direction for finding 'Scar-faced' Allister."
He watched that shot shake her.
"You do? You got a hell of a nerve askin' around here for Allister! Slope, kid, slope. You're on a cold trail."
"Wait a minute," protested Andrew. "You need another look at me."
