towering, white clad, her eyes ablaze, her hands curved to clutch.
"Get her out of the road," cried Hollister and two jumped at her. The rest set down their lanterns and two more leaped in to reinforce as Thora sent one spinning away, another crashing against a table and so to the floor. They grappled with her, fighting with snarls and curses as she fought with them as a she-bear protects her cub, dragging her out into the main room, a whirling teetotum of fury, panting, thumping, tripping. They caught at her braids, pulling back her head, and she whirled, swinging them clear, flailing at them, struggling desperately against the odds.
Hollister leaped for the bedroom door with one man close behind him, while the three held the raging Thora. Mary slammed the panels in their face, turned the key, dragged a bureau up and put her slimsy weight to it. There was not a weapon in the room. She had recognized Hollister's voice, she knew that they had come for her. The door swayed before the shock of their shoulders.
"Choke that Swedish sow, if you can't handle her," shouted Hollister. "Get a rope, Ramon. Keep an eye on that window outside, one of you. She may jump! Now! Damnation!"
Thora had broken loose, an incarnate fury, her nightrobe torn, her face bruised. She hurled herself at Hollister and caught him by the neck. Another, coming from behind, she gripped by his collar and swung the two together. Their skulls thudded and they dropped like pole-axed bullocks. Then a rope
