Hap Smith snarled; his face no
longer one of broad good humour. The shotgun barrel bore upon him
steadily, warningly. Hap's rising hand dropped again.
Then suddenly all was uproar and confusion, those who had been chained
to their chairs or places on the floor springing into action. The man
had backed to the door, swept up the mail bags and now suddenly leaped
backward into the outside night. Hap Smith and four or five other men
had drawn their guns and were firing after him. There were outcries,
above them surging the curses of the stage driver. Bert Stone was
moaning on the floor. The girl wanted to go to him but for a little
merely regarded him with wide eyes; there was a spreading pool on the
bare floor at his side, looking in the uncertain light like spilled ink.
A thud of bare feet, and Ma Drury came running into the room, her night
dress flying after her.
"Pa!" she cried wildly. "You ain't killed, are you, Pa?"
"Bert is, most likely," he answered, swinging across the room to the
fallen man. Then it was that the girl by the fire sprang to her feet
and ran to Bert Stone's side.
"Who was it? What happened?" Ma Drury asked shrilly.
The men looked from one to another of their set-faced crowd. Getting
only silence for her answer Ma Drury with characteristic irritation
demanded again to be told full particulars and in the same breath
ordered the door shut.
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