The Sheriff's Son
ground of his thoughts. Now again the throbbing ache intruded itself. The fingers of his left hand searched under his waistcoat, explored a spot that was tender and soppy, and came forth moist.
He knew he had been shot, but this gave him very little concern. He had no time to worry about his actual ills, since his whole mind was given to the fear of those that were impending.
Upon the window there came a faint tapping. The hand with the revolver jerked up automatically. Every muscle of Beaudry's body grew rigid. His senses were keyed to a tense alertness. He moistened his lips with his tongue as he crouched in readiness for the attack about to break.
Again the tapping, and this time with it a quick, low, imperious call.
"Mr. Street. Are you there? Let me in!"
He knew that voice—would have known it among a thousand. In another moment he had raised the window softly and Beulah Rutherford was climbing in.
She panted as if she had been running. "They 're watching the entrance to the arroyo. I came up through the cañon and across the pasture," she explained.
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