The place had been equipped
after a fashion by deer-hunters or mountain hikers, who brought
additional furnishings to the place each year and left mouldy
provisions and unconsumed firewood behind.
The man succeeded finally in closing the door. He turned upon her.
He was short and stocky. The stolen corduroy coat covered
blacksmith's muscles now made doubly powerful by dementia. His hair
was lifeless black and clipped close, prison-fashion. His low
forehead hung over burning, mismated eyes. From her helplessness on
the floor Cora McBride stared up at him.
He came closer.
"Get up!" he ordered. "Take that chair. And don't start no
rough-house; whether you're a woman or not, I'll drill you!"
She groped to the indicated chair and raised herself, the single
snowshoe still dragging from one foot. Again the man surveyed her.
She saw his eyes and gave another inarticulate cry.
"Shut your mouth and keep it shut! You hear me?"
She obeyed.
The greenish light burned brighter in his mismated eyes, which gazed
intently at the top of her head as though it held something unearthly.
"Take off your hat!" was his next command.
She pulled off the toque. Her hair fell in a mass on her
snow-blotched shoulders.
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