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The little troop rode in silence. At its head was a youthful fellow with some dim yellow stripes upon his arm. In his right hand he held his carbine, slanting upward, with the stock resting upon his knee. He was absorbed in a scrutiny of the country before him.

At the heels of the sergeant the rest of the squad rode in thin column, with creak of leather and tinkle of steel and tin. The girl scanned the faces of the horsemen, seeming astonished vaguely to find them of the type she knew.

The lad at the head of the troop comprehended the house and its environments in two glances. He did not check the long, swinging stride of his horse. The troopers glanced for a moment like casual tourists, and then returned to their study of the region in front. The heavy thudding of the hoofs became a small noise. The dust, hanging in sheets, slowly sank.

The sobs of the woman on the bed took form in words which, while strong in their note of calamity, yet expressed a querulous mental reaching for some near thing to blame.”And it’ll be lucky fer us if we ain’t both butchered in our sleep–plundering and running off horses–old Santo’s gone–you see if he ain’t–plundering–“

“But, ma,” said the girl, perplexed and terrified in the same moment, “they’ve gone.”

“Oh, but they’ll come back!” cried the mother, without pausing her wail.”They’ll come back–trust them for that–running off horses. O John, John! why did you, why did you?” She suddenly lifted herself and sat rigid, staring at her daughter.”Mary,” she said in tragic whisper, “the kitchen door isn’t locked!” Already she was bended forward to listen, her mouth agape, her eyes fixed upon her daughter.

“Mother,” faltered the girl.

Her mother again whispered, “The kitchen door isn’t locked.”

Motionless and mute they stared into each other’s eyes.

At last the girl quavered, “We better–we better go and lock it.” The mother nodded. Hanging arm in arm they stole across the floor toward the head of the stairs. A board of the floor creaked. They halted and exchanged a look of dumb agony.

At last they reached the head of the stairs. From the kitchen came the bass humming of the kettle and frequent sputterings and cracklings from the fire. These sounds were sinister. The mother and the girl stood incapable of movement.”There’s somebody down there!” whispered the elder woman.

Finally, the girl made a gesture of resolution. She twisted her arm from her mother’s hands and went two steps downward. She addressed the kitchen: “Who’s there?” Her tone was intended to be dauntless. It rang so dramatically in the silence that a sudden new panic seized them as if the suspected presence in the kitchen had cried out to them. But the girl ventured again: “Is there anybody there?” No reply was made save by the kettle and the fire.

With a stealthy tread the girl continued her journey. As she neared the last step the fire crackled explosively and the girl screamed. But the mystic presence had not swept around the corner to grab her, so she dropped to a seat on the step and laughed.”It was–was only the–the fire,” she said, stammering hysterically.

Then she arose with sudden fortitude and cried: “Why, there isn’t anybody there! I know there isn’t.” She marched down into the kitchen. In her face was dread, as if she half expected to confront something, but the room was empty. She cried joyously: “There’s nobody here! Come on down, ma.” She ran to the kitchen door and locked it.

The mother
came down to the kitchen.”Oh, dear, what a fright I’ve had! It’s given me the sick headache. I know it has.”