MY LADY OF THE SOUTH
O'Brien crouching beside the door, hi, carbine working viciously. It was all instantaneous, and I rolled over, kicked the heavy oaken door shut, and dropped the bar into its socket. There was little doubt as to the end; hut now, at least, we had a breathing spell, a few moments of protection. A quick glance about gave me a plan of defence.
"That's a double door, O'Brien: loosen the upper half, and use your gun through the opening. Keep down so they can't get you. I'll dig a hole between the logs on the other side."
I turned, fishing a knife out of my pocket. It was a single-room cabin, its only window boarded up, so very little light found entrance. A few pieces of rude furniture were jumbled up at the farther end, but I barely noticed these, for, with my first step, I came face to face with a woman, fronting me with gun in hand. She was tall, angular, poorly dressed, her features sharp, her hair a wisp, her eyes burning into mine. The encounter was so sudden and unexpected that I recoiled, dropping my knife, and gripping at the revolver.
"Who be yer—Yanks?" The question seemed to come from between clinched teeth.
"Yes," I acknowledged, realizing the uselessness of denial "Who are you?"
"It don't make no difference who we-uns be. Who's them fellers after yer?"
"Rebs, of course."
"Donald's outfit?"
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