It was an odd and wholly new sensation, this conjuring up of distressing spectres, for no girl was given less to that sort of thing; all the same, it was with difficulty that she checked an impulse to cry out to her lover—­whom she believed to be asleep—­and make him dissipate, by renewed assurances, the mysterious barrier which she felt was hemming her in.

As for Johnson, the moment that his head had touched the pillows, he fell to thinking of the awkward situation in which he was placed, the many complications in which his heart had involved him and, finally, he found himself wondering whether the woman whom he loved so dearly was also lying sleepless in her rug on the floor.

And so it was not surprising that he should spring up the moment that he heard cries from outside.

“Who’s that knockin’, I wonder?”

Although her voice showed no signs of distress or annoyance, the question coming from her in a calm tone, the Girl was upon her feet almost before she knew it.  In a trice she removed all evidences that she had been lying upon the floor, flinging the pillows and silk coverlet to the wardrobe top.

In that same moment Johnson was standing in the parting of the curtains, his hand raised warningly.  In another moment he was over to the door where, after taking his pistols from his overcoat pockets, he stood in a cool, determined attitude, fingering his weapons.

“But some one’s ben callin’,” the Girl was saying, at the very moment when above the loud roaring of the wind another knock was heard on the cabin door.  “Who can it be?” she asked as if to herself, and calmly went over to the table, where she took up the candle and lit it.

Springing to her side, Johnson whispered tensely: 

“Don’t answer—­you can’t let anyone in—­they wouldn’t understand.”

The Girl eyed him quizzically.

“Understand what?” And before he had time to explain, much less to check her, she was standing at the window, candle in hand, peering out into the night.

“Why, it’s the posse!” she cried, wheeling round suddenly.  “How did they ever risk it in this storm?”

At these words a crushed expression appeared on Johnson’s countenance; an uncanny sense of insecurity seized him.  Once more the loud, insistent pounding was repeated, and as before, the outlaw, his hands on his guns, commanded her not to answer.

“But what on earth do the boys want?” inquired the Girl, seemingly oblivious to what he was saying.  Indeed, so much so that as the voice of Nick rose high above the other sounds of the night, calling, “Min-Minnie-Girl, let us in!” she hurriedly brushed past him and yelled through the door: 

“What do you want?”

Again Johnson’s hand went up imperatively.

“Don’t let him come in!” he whispered.

But even then she heard not his warning, but silently, tremulously listened to Sonora, who shouted through the door:  “Say, Girl, you all right?” And not until her answering voice had called back her assurance that she was safe did she turn to the man at her side and whisper in a voice that showed plainly her agitation and fear: