The Silver Bar Mystery by W. C. Tuttle

The room was about twenty feet long by fifteen feet in width. There was one door of heavy, hand-hewed oak, reinforced crudely with wrought iron, and one window, guarded on the outside with a heavy iron grille, looking out at an unused patio, where the grass grew rank between the flagged walks. Beyond the patio was a blank wall, slowly falling apart from weather and old age. There was one old bed, a crude four-poster, some home-made chairs of oak and rawhide. The bedding was plentiful, but none too clean. In one corner was a small fireplace, and on her knees in front of it was an old, toothless Yaqui squaw, trying in a fumbling way to light a fire.

Seated on the bed was Mrs. Austin, chin in hands, indifferently watching the old squaw, while Betty Austin stood at the window, looking out at the fading light of the old patio. Just inside the door, which was closed, stood a Yaqui Indian, rifle in hand, a perpetual scowl on his ugly countenance.