But apparently Terry
Hollis cared little about the moods of the girl. He was the center of
festivities that evening until an interruption from the outside formed a
diversion. It came in the form of a hard rider; the mutter of his hoofs
swept to the door, and Phil Marvin, having examined the stranger from the
shuttered loophole beside the entrance, opened the door to him at once.
"It's Sandy," he fired over his shoulder in explanation.
A weary-looking fellow came into the room, swinging his hat to knock the
dust off it, and loosening the bandanna at his throat. The drooping, pale
mustache explained his name. Two words were spoken, and no more.
"News?" said Pollard.
"News," grunted Sandy, and took a place at the table.
Terry had noted before that there were always one or two extra places
laid; he had always liked the suggestion of hospitality, but he was
rather in doubt about this guest. He ate with marvellous expedition,
keeping his lean face close to the table and bolting his food like a
hungry dog. Presently he drained his coffee cup, arranged his mustache
with painful care, and seemed prepared to talk.
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