Hilma asked no questions. The fencing and sparring that had preceded Zang and the sheriff's withdrawal had been all too plain to her. She knew Zang was behind bars.
The girl suffered bustling Mrs. Agnew to lead her to a bedroom, apathetically watched her pull down the shades and put the coverlet into place.
"Right round the clock," the lady conjured with a monitory forefinger from the door. "Don't you dare show your face outside this room until you 've slept right on till to-morrow morning, or I 'll have Red swear out a charge against you."
Once under the covers, Hilma tried to focus her attention upon a review of the circumstances the morning had capped: Zang Whistler, who had refused to leave her side, now a prisoner of the law; she, homeless, friendless, penniless, in bed under a jail roof, and helpless did only Original Bill Blunt care to put his name to a warrant charging her with attempt to do murder.
This Original Bill with his mocking black eyes and that tantalizing smile—fighter of women, tool of the imperious cattle clan. Oh, how she hated him—hated
