back of the house a horse nickered and Sheridan's mare responded with a shrill whinny. An oblong of yellow light appeared close to the smaller space that was the window. It was almost instantly blocked by the giant figure of a woman. A streak of dull light shone on the object she carried, which both men knew for a rifle.
"Who you bane out there? What you want?" The voice was deep, contralto, musical, but it carried a quality that was imperative, backed by the rifle.
"My name is Peter Sheridan. I am owner of the Circle S ranch," said Sheridan, riding in a little way.
"You stop right where you bane now. Both of you, 'lest you want you should git shot. Who told you how to git in this place?"
"I shall be glad to explain," said Sheridan, conscious of Jackson snickering beside him in the dark. "We'll both come in with our hands up, if you like. I assure you we are friends on a friendly mission."
"That will do, Thora." The great bulk of the woman disappeared from the lighted frame as she stepped on the verandah. Another figure took her place, slight, silhouetted, with the rays of the lamp inside just touching gold-brown hair and an oval cheek.
"The slimsy lady," muttered Sheridan. She spoke his own tongue, the language of culture. He fancied that she had recognized it in him also, that it had served as a password and countersign.
"Will you gentlemen come up? You startled us
