In the center of the room stood Mary Standish. The candles, shaded so
they would not disclose the windows, faintly illumined her pale face and
unbound hair and revealed the horror in her eyes as she looked at Alan.
He was about to speak, to assure her there was no danger that Graham's
men would fire upon the cabin--when hell broke suddenly loose out in the
night. The savage roar of guns answered Sokwenna's fusillade, and a hail
of bullets crashed against the log walls. Two of them found their way
through the windows like hissing serpents, and with a single movement
Alan was at Mary's side and had crumpled her down on the floor beside
Keok and Nawadlook. His face was white, his brain a furnace of sudden,
consuming fire.
"I thought they wouldn't shoot at women," he said, and his voice was
terrifying in its strange hardness. "I was mistaken. And I am
sure--now--that I understand."
With his rifle he cautiously approached the window. He was no longer
guessing at an elusive truth. He knew what Graham was thinking, what he
was planning, what he intended to do, and the thing was appalling. Both
he and Rossland knew there would be some way of sheltering Mary Standish
in Sokwenna's cabin; they were accepting a desperate gamble, believing
that Alan Holt would find a safe place for her, while he fought until
he fell.
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