Her thin, white hands rested limply on the arms of the chair, and she was rocking back and forth, back and forth, steadily, quietly,--just rocking and staring at the Indian rug.
Casey has since told me that she was the creepiest thing he ever saw in his life.

Yet he could not explain why it was so.

The woman's face was not so old, though it was lined and without color.

There was a terrible quiet in her features, but he felt, somehow, that her thoughts were not quiet.

It was as if her thoughts were reaching out to him, telling him things too awful for her thin, hushed lips to let pass.
But after all, Casey's main object was to locate the man with the rifle, and to do it before he himself was seen on the butte.