Then she knew; and she stopped full and stared down at the loose sand just before the warped kitchen steps.

There were footprints in the path,--alien footprints; and they pointed toward that forbidden door into the kitchen of gruesome memory.

Jean looked up frowning, and saw that the door had been opened and closed again carelessly.

And upon the top step, strange feet had pressed a little caked earth carried from the trail where she stood.

There were the small-heeled, pointed prints of a woman's foot, and there were the larger tracks of a man,--a man of the town.
Jean stood with her quirt dangling loosely from her wrist and glanced back toward the stables and down the coulee.