She was in that mental and physical condition when, the body tired and the brain betwixt dozing and waking, thought becomes a feverish process, the mind snatching vivid pictures from the day’s experience and weaving them into as illogical a pattern as that of the crazy quilt over her shoulders.  All day long she had ridden in the swaying, lurching, jerking stage until now in her chair, as she slipped a little forward, she experienced the sensations of the day.  Many a time that day as the racing horses obeying the experienced hand of the driver swept around a sharp turn in the road she had looked down a sheer cliff that had made her flesh quiver so that it had been hard not to draw back and cry out.  She had seen the horses leaping forward scamper like mad runaways down a long slope, dashing through the spray of a rising creek to take the uphill climb on the run.  And tonight she had seen a masked man shoot down one of her day’s companions and loot the United States mail....  And in a register somewhere she had written down the name of Hill’s Corners.  The place men called Dead Man’s Alley.  She had never heard the name until today.  Tomorrow she would ask the exact significance of it....

At last she was sound asleep.  She had found comfort by twisting sideways in her chair and resting her shoulder against the warm rock-masonry of the outer edge of the fireplace.  She awoke with a start.  What had recalled her to consciousness she did not know.  Perhaps a new voice in her ears, perhaps Poke Drury’s tones become suddenly shrill.  Or it may be that just a sudden sinking and falling away into utter silence of all voices, the growing still of hands upon dice cups, all eloquent of a new breathless atmosphere in the room had succeeded in impressing upon her sleep-drugged brain the fact of still another vital, electrically charged moment.  She turned in her chair.  Then she settled back, wondering.

The door was open; the wind was sweeping in; again old newspapers went flying wildly as though in panicky fear.  The men in the room were staring even as she stared, in bewilderment.  She heard old man Adams’s tongue clicking in his toothless old mouth.  She saw Hap Smith, his expression one of pure amazement, standing, half crouching as though to spring, his hands like claws at his sides.  And all of this because of the man who stood in the open doorway, looking in.

The man who had shot Bert Stone, who had looted a mail bag, had returned!  That was her instant thought.  And clearly enough it was the thought shared by all of Poke Drury’s guests.  To be sure he carried no visible gun and his face was unhidden.  But there was the hugeness of him, bulking big in the doorway, the spare, sinewy height made the taller by his tall boot heels, the wide black hat with the drooping brim from which rain drops trickled in a quick flashing chain, the shaggy black chaps of a cowboy in holiday attire, the soft grey shirt, the grey neck handkerchief about a brown throat, even the end of a faded bandana trailing from a hip pocket.