At length the door opened, and two figures entered affrightedly, those of Hank Peterson, a neighbouring rancher, and his wife.

Hank was dressed in the costume of the time, and the high heels of his boots tapped uncertainly as he made his way over the wide hollow-sounding floor, his feet wabbling and crossing in his trepidation.

None the less, having forthwith decoyed to the row of men sitting silent against the wall, he duly reached that harbour and sank down, wiping his face and passing his hand across his mouth uncertainly.

His wife was a tall, angular woman, whose garb was like that of most of the other women--cotton print.

Yet her hair was combed to the point of fatality, and at her neck she had a collarette of what might have been lace, but was not.