t the marshal dropped him in his tracks, the fellow rolling
off the steps onto the ground. With outstretched hands he stopped the
others, holding them back out of any possible view from within.

"Quick now, before that bunch inside gets wise to what's up. We've got
'em cornered. You, Matt, strip the jacket off that Mex, an' get his
hat; bunch 'em up together, and set a match to 'em. That's the stuff!
Now, the minute they blaze throw 'em in through that doorway. Come on,
Westcott, be ready to jump."

The hat was straw, and the bundle of blazing material landed almost in
the centre of the floor, lighting up the whole interior. Almost before
it struck, the three men, revolvers gleaming in their hands, had leaped
across the shattered door, and confronted the startled band huddled in
one corner. Brennan wasted no time, his eyes sweeping over the array
of faces, revealed by the blaze of fire on the floor.

"Hands up, my beauties--every mother's son of yer. Yes, I mean you,
yer human catapiller. Don't waste any time about it; I'm the caller
fer this dance. Put 'em up higher, less yer want ter commit suicide.
Now drop them rifles on the floor--gently, friends, gently. Matt,
frisk 'em and see what other weapons they carry. Ever see nicer bunch
o' lambs, Jim?" His lips smiling, but with an ugly look to his
gleaming teeth, and steady eyes. "Why they'd eat outer yer hand.
Which one of yer is Mendez?"

"He dead, _senor_," one fellow managed to answer in broken English.
"That heem lie dar."

"Well, that's some comfort," but without glancing about. "Now kick the
guns over this way, Matt, and touch a match to the lamp on that shelf
yonder; and, Jim, perhaps you better stamp out the fire; we'll not need
it any more. Great Scott! What's this?"

It was Miss Donovan, her dress torn, her hair dishevelled, a revolver
still clasped in her hand, half levelled as though she yet doubted her
realisation of what had occurred. She emerged from the blackness of
the rear room, advanced a step and stood there hesitating, her
wide-open eyes gazing about in bewilderment on the strange scene
revealed by the glow of the lamp. That searching, pathetic glance
swept from face to face about the motionless circle--the cowed Mexican
prisoners with uplifted hands backed against the wall; the three dead
bodies huddled on the floor; Moore, with the slowly expiring match yet
smoking in his fingers; the little marshal, erect, a revolver pois