ed like a lost
soul, wailed with the fury of impotent hate. Mac Strann caught Haw-Haw
by the arm and dragged him back towards the door.

"I don't want to _kill_ the dog," he repeated. "Get out of here,
Haw-Haw. Barry'll be comin' any minute."

He could have used no sharper spur to urge on the laggard. Haw-Haw
Langley raced out of the barn a full stride before Mac Strann. They
hurried together to the little rise of ground behind which they had left
their horses, and as they ran the scream which had curdled the blood of
Randall Byrne rang through the night. In a thousand years he could never
have guessed from what that yell issued; his nearest surmise would have
been a score of men screaming in unison under the torture. But Mac
Strann and Haw-Haw Langley knew the sound well enough.

When they mounted their saddles they could look over the top of the
little hill and observe everything easily without being seen; for the
hill-top commanded a range of the corrals and a view of the fronts of
the barns and sheds which opened upon the fenced enclosures. The largest
and longest of these buildings was now plainly visible, for a long arm
of fire reached above the roof on one side of the low shed and by this
growing light the other barns, the glimmering-eyed horses and cattle of
the corrals, the trees about the house, the house itself, were in turn
visible, though vaguely, and at times, as the flame lapsed, all were
lost in a flood of swift darkness. Once more that unhuman shriek echoed
from hill to hill and from building to building. It was Satan in his box
stall. The flames were eating through the partition, and the stallion
was mad with fear.

Lights flashed, here and there, in the big ranch house; and from the
bunk-house on the farther side of the corrals rose a volley of curses
and yells of dismay. The cattle began milling blindly, bellowing and
stamping, and the horses ranged at a mad gallop back and forth across
their corrals, wild-eyed with terror. It was like the tumult of a
battle, and sharper than a trumpet a new sound cut through the din--it
was a short, high whistle, twice repeated. An answer came from the
burning barn--the long, strong neighing of the stallion.

"D'ye hear?" muttered Mac Strann. "It's the hoss talkin' to his master!"

"And there he comes!" said Haw-Haw Langley. "Runnin' like the wind!"

The flame, picked up by the gale, tore for itself a wider breathing
space through the roof and sent up an audi