She struck him, then, bringing her free hand around with a wide, full
sweep. The open hand landed on the side of his face with a smack that
resounded through the cabin, staggering him, causing him to release the
other hand.

A great, red welt appeared on his cheek where the hand had struck; and
he felt of his cheek with his fingers, amazed, incredulous. For an
instant only, however, he stood, trying to wipe the sting of the blow
away. Then he laughed throatily and started after her--she having
retreated behind the table, where she stood, watching him, her eyes
wide, her face dead white.

Warden, leaning far over the table, saw her eyes close as she stood
there; saw her fingers grip the edge of the table; noted that her chin
had dropped and that she seemed to be on the point of fainting.

Warden's back was toward the front door; he had to slip sideways to get
around the table, and as he did so his profile was brought toward the
door. He saw a shadow at his feet--a shadow cast by the last effulgent
glow of the setting sun--a shadow made by a man standing in the doorway.

Warden halted and held hard to the table edge. Reason, cold, remorseless
reason surged back into his brain, accompanied by a paralyzing fear.
Some prescience told him that the man in the doorway was Kane Lawler.
And though he was convinced of it, he was a long time lifting his head
and in turning it the merest trifle toward the door. And when he saw
that the dread apparition was indeed Lawler, and that Lawler's heavy
pistol was extending from his side, the hand and arm behind it rigid, he
stiffened, flung himself around and faced Lawler, his mouth open, his
eyes bulging with the terrible dread of death and the awful certainty