The Desert Moon Mystery by Kay Cleaver Strahan

I suppose it takes more than a minute for one's wits, particularly if they happen to be thick wits, to drain entirely away.

Before mine had completely left me, I had attempted to telephone to Sam, down in the outfit's quarters, and had failed to get a reply to my call. I had told Mrs. Ricker and Zinnia, trying with all my might to hide my fear, to run out and find Sam, or Miss MacDonald, or Hubert Hand, or John-I had forgotten that John was upstairs in his room-and to bring one or all of them to the house as quickly as possible. To this day I don't know why they went, without a question; but they went, running. It was the slam of the screen door behind them, I think, bringing with it as it did the realization of my aloneness and the memory of Miss MacDonald's warning, that turned me clear over to terror.

I shall not describe what I did, nor what I thought, during the time that I was alone there, downstairs, before help arrived. The humorously inclined might think such a description amusing. To me there is nothing amusing in the spectacle of an old woman being gripped and wrung by fright. I longed to run from the house; but I felt that I must stay there to explain the situation to the others when they came, if they ever did come, and to do my poor best, since I had made the fatal mistake, to prevent catastrophe. By clock time, it was only thirty-six silent minutes that I had to wait before Miss MacDonald came, alone and unhurried, up the front steps and into the living-room.

Still holding Sam's thirty-thirty rifle in my hands-I had known that I could never use it to shoot at any living thing, but I had hoped that it might make me look dangerous-I turned to meet her.

"Don't point that thing at me," she commanded. "Put it down. What are you doing with it? What is the trouble here?"

Before I could answer her, Sam, Mrs. Ricker and Zinnia came clattering through the kitchen.

Mrs. Ricker was wringing her hands and saying over and over, in a voice all broken and mutilated with horror, "I have gone insane, I have gone insane. I have gone insane."

Sam said, "Gabrielle Canneziano just now waved at us from her window."

Miss MacDonald turned and ran like a wild thing up the stairs. Just as she disappeared from our sight the sound of a pistol's shot cracked through the place.

I followed the others. I ran up the steps. I stumbled down the hall, behind them, and into Gabrielle Canneziano's room.

I saw Gabrielle Canneziano, her cheeks painted, her lips reddened, long earrings dangling from her ears, lying on the couch. Over her breast was a widening spot of color, staining the fringes of the soft white silk dressing-gown that she was wearing. On the floor was a smoking revolver.

John came. He said, "She told me what she was going to do. I allowed her to do it. I did not want Nevada to have to execute a woman."