In the gorge horsemen climbed slowly, with the scrape of hoofs, with low words and a low laugh or two. They emerged on to the meadow, five of them, one leading an extra horse, and looked across to where the house lay dark. Matches made points of light and three lanterns glowed, swinging as the riders galloped towards the lake. Outside the house they dismounted and talked in whispers. One of them stole up on the verandah and tried the door.
"It's locked, or bolted," he reported in Spanish.
"To hell with it!" answered the leader—Hollister. "They're abed and asleep. We'll wake 'em up. Get a log. Bust it open. We've wasted too much time over that damned gate."
They found a fallen pine for a battering ram, handling it by the broken snags of branches still firm in the trunk. Outside the door they aligned, two opposite two, while Hollister held a lantern high. They swung the heavy timber back and forth, butt foremost.
Mary Burrows sat upright, her heart hammering, clutching at Thora, who rose and slid out from the covers of the four-poster to the floor as a crash resounded on the door and the sturdy house shook to the impact. Again and again it sounded with splintering crashes while Thora groped vainly for matches and then sprang for the doorway between the bedroom and living room. The outer door split, gave way at the hinges and fell flat while, over it, with oaths and shouts and gleaming lanterns, the five marauders rushed in. They paused for a second at the sight of Thora, filling the inner doorway,
