came whistling, the loop settled over her head, tightened viciously about her throat. She was dragged away, choking, amid a shout of triumph.
"Tie up the bitch!" shouted Hollister, gathering himself up from the planks. "Get that log again. Pronto, now. We'll have the daylight on us in a minute."
Terrified but not witless, Mary, behind her flimsy barricade, found in the dark her riding breeches and slipped them on, then her sweater. The silhouette of a man's head and shoulders showed at the window. With a crash the bureau was pushed back, the lock gave way, the door opened and Hollister jumped in, seizing her as she shrank against the bed. With all her strength she fought him, tearing at his face, the reek of liquor strong as he laughed at her, gathering her in his arms, bearing her into the other room.
There she saw Thora, flung into a corner, bound hand and foot.
Thora cried to her and a man struck her savagely in the mouth. He was a Mexican, as were all save Hollister, and his own lips were split and bleeding. The furniture was out of place, chairs on the floor, the lamp broken, rugs scrambled in mute evidence of the fight that Thora had made.
A man with a lantern went into the bedroom and returned with an armful of clothes, offering them to Hollister.
"Will you come as you are?" demanded Hollister to Mary in his arms. "Or will you go in there quietly and put them on first? Don't worry to fuss up in the mirror. You can use my eyes later."
