nda, and the sound of a man dropping lightly to the ground. Then came
very faintly the murmur of voices.

To the two women, standing motionless, with eyes riveted on the door, the
pause that followed lengthened interminably. It seemed as if that low,
stealthy, sibilant whispering was going on forever. Mrs. Archer held her
little pearl-handled toy with a spasmodic grip which brought out a row of
dots across her delicate knuckles, rivaling her face in whiteness. Mary
Thorne's gray eyes, dilated with emotion, stood out against her pallor
like deep wells of black. One clenched hand hung straight at her side; the
other rested on the butt of the Colt, lying on the stand below the useless
instrument.

Suddenly the tension snapped as the heavy tread of feet sounded across the
porch and a hand rattled the latch.

"Open up!" called a harsh, familiar voice.

There was no answer. Mrs. Archer reached out to steady herself against the
table. Mary's grip on the Colt tightened convulsively.

"Open up, I tell yuh," repeated the voice. "I ain't aimin' to--hurt yuh."

Then apparently a heavy shoulder thrust against the door, which shook and
creaked ominously. Suddenly the girl's slim figure straightened and she
brought her weapon around in front of her, holding it with both hands.

"If--if you try to force that door, I--I'll shoot," she called out.

The only answer was an incredulous laugh, and an instant later the man's
shoulder struck the panels with a crash that cracked one of them and
partly tore the bolt from its insecure fastenings.

Promptly the girl cocked her weapon, shut both eyes, and pulled the
trigger. The recoil jerked the barrel up, and the bullet lodged in the
ceiling. Before she could recover from the shock, there came another
crash, the shattered door swung inward, and Tex Lynch sprang across the
threshold.

Again Mary lifted the heavy weapon and tried to nerve herself to fire. But
somehow this was different from shooting through a solid wooden door, and
she could not bring herself to do it. Mrs. Archer had no such scruples.
Her small, delicately-chiseled face was no longer soft and gentle. It had
frozen into a white mask of horror, out of which the once-soft eyes blazed
with fierce determination. Bending across the table, she leveled her
toylike weapon at the advancing outlaw, and by the merest chance sent a
bullet flying so close to his head that he ducked instinctively. An
instant later Pedro darted through