dusk. Soon it became dark, and the moon
would not be up for an hour. Kid Wolf, Tip McCay, and their four
companions were never more alert. But even their keen eyes could not
watch everything.

Young McCay was very pale. His father's death had touched him deeply,
and fury against his killers burned in his glance. The others, too,
were grim, thinking not of their own peril, but of the murderous Hardy
gang. Thirsty for vengeance, they kept their eyes glued to their
peepholes, fingers on gun triggers.

Tip had found a friend in Kid Wolf. No words were wasted on sympathy
now, or regrets, but Tip knew that the drawling Texan understood.

There was little shooting being done now, and the suspense was telling
on the nerves of all of them. What was Hardy up to? Would he again
attempt to batter down the door and force a way in, under cover of
darkness this time? But they were not left long in doubt.

"I smell smoke!" cried Blake.

Immediately afterward a sharp, crackling sound came to their ears.
Hardy's gang had set fire to the store! Under cover of darkness, one
of the slinking Indians had crept up and ignited a pile of oil-soaked
rags against the logs of the building. The flames rose high, licking
hungrily upward.

"Get water!" some one shouted.

A bucketful or two from their supply tossed accurately through a
loophole by Kid Wolf extinguished the blaze before it could rise
higher. It was a close call, and it showed them what to expect now.
The Indian's mistake had been in setting his fire where it could be
reached by the defenders.

"We were pretty blamed lucky," Caldwell began. "If thet fire----"

"Not so lucky," sang out the Texan. "Look at _that_!"

From the direction of the saloon, a half dozen streaks of flame shot up
into the sky like so many rockets. Fire whistled in the wind. The
streaks were burning arrows, fired by Hardy's red-skinned cutthroats!

"That settles it!" groaned Tip resignedly. "They're fallin' on the
roof!"

It was a wonder Hardy's evil brain hadn't thought of it before.
Possibly some of his savage recruits had suggested it. At any rate, it
was more to the rustler chief's purpose than smashing in the door. It
would soon be all over for the defenders now.

In a breath, the roof was afire. Little jets of smoke began to spurt
down from the beams over their heads, and the flames were fanned into a
roar by the wind. Desperately the little handful of fighters exchanged
g