strength in a sudden burst. Thora's arm rippled, the muscles stood out, the veins showed but it did not budge. Once she relaxed her hand and let it flip backwards swiftly, regaining the pose instantly.
Then the rippling muscles tensed, seemed to grow. Her face was placid, she did not seem to be putting out especial effort, but the hushed, intent lookers-on saw Hollister's features congest with blood as he strained against the woman's steady force. Swollen veins showed in his forehead and neck, sweat began to form in beads and his arm faltered, swayed, then went slowly down until the back of his hand was fairly on the table. A roar of laughter went up as he sat there, discomfited, hate in his face, his hand half creeping to his belt.
"Anny one else?" asked Thora. Sheridan watched Hollister like a cat. The man was temporarily beside himself with rage and wounded pride. The jeers of his fellows were goading him to desperation.
Mary Burrows got Sheridan's eye and nodded. She got up and walked out between Hollister and the others.
"There are no more doughnuts," she said, "but there is plenty of coffee. I'll serve you while Thora gives you some music."
Jackson nearly shoved Sheridan from his chair by the lunge he gave him in his ribs.
"Ten you owe me, old-timer," he whispered.
It seemed incongruous, impossible, that the hands that had felled trees, killed the puma, set down Hollister, made the doughnuts, could produce such music as they had heard coming over the meadow.
