"What are you doing, Mary? Can I help you?"
For a second the girl hesitated, nails digging painfully into her palms. Then she managed to find her voice.
"No thanks, dear. I'll be there in just a minute." Resolutely she took up the saucepan and caddy and walked slowly toward the lighted doorway. She felt that a glance at her face would probably tell Mrs. Archer that something was wrong, and so, entering the living-room, she went straight over to the fireplace. Kneeling on the hearth, she took the poker and made a little hollow amongst the burning sticks in which she placed the covered saucepan. When she stood up the heat had burned a convincingly rosy flush into her cheeks.
"I was closing the shutters," she explained in a natural tone. "While the water's boiling I think I'll do the same in the other rooms. Then we'll feel quite safe and snug."
Mrs. Archer, who was arranging their supper on one end of the big table, agreed briefly but made no other comment. When Mary had secured the living-room door and windows, she took the four bedrooms in turn, ending in the one whose incongruously masculine appointments had once aroused the curiosity of Buck Green.
How long ago that seemed! She set her candle on the dresser and stared around the room. If only she wasn't such a helpless little ninny!
"And I'm such a fool I wouldn't know how to use a revolver if I had it," thought the girl forlornly. "I don't even know what I did with Dad's."
Then, of a sudden, her glance fell upon the cartridge-belt hanging on the wall, from whose pendant holster protruded the butt of an efficient-looking six-shooter--Stratton's weapon, which, like everything else in the room, she had left religiously as she found it.
Stepping forward, she took hold of it gingerly and managed to draw it forth--a heavy, thirty-eight Colt, the barrel rust-pitted in a few places, but otherwise in excellent condition. She had no idea how to load it, but presently discovered by peering into the magazine that the shells seemed to be already in place. Then all at once her eyes filled and a choking little sob rose in her throat.
"Oh, if you were only here!" she whispered unevenly.
It would be hard to determine whether she was thinking of Stratton, that dreamlike hero of hers, whose tragic death she had felt so keenly, or of another man who was very much alive indeed. Perhaps she scarcely knew herself. At all events it was only a momentary little breakdown. Pulling herself together, she returned to the living-room, carrying the big six-shooter half hidden by her skirts, and managed to slip it, apparently unseen, on a little stand above which hung the telephone to Las Vegas camp. By this time the water was boiling, and having made tea, she carried the pot back to the big table and sat down opposite Mrs. Archer.
