till. We may have to stand a siege awhile until father can reach us."

Two minutes more, bending low and with his last cartridge crammed into
the chamber of his carbine, Feeny turned to make a run for the ranch.
Just as he came speeding in past the westward wall the wooden shutter
was hurled open and a strange voice, loud, exultant, strident, burst
upon his ear.

"Come on, Pasqual! Come ----"

But the rest was lost in the roar of Feeny's ready weapon. The rude
facade of adobe blazed red one instant in the flash of the carbine and
the loud report went bellowing out across the plain. But within the
ranch there went up a wail of terror and dismay, for Ramon Morales,
shot through the brain, was stretched lifeless at the feet of Moreno
and his shuddering wife.

And then Feeny, unscathed, leaped inside the bar-room.

"Now for it, men! Drag in those two drunken brute bastes," he cried,
laying hold of Mullan's limp carcass. "Lug in wan of them water-jars.
Stick their damned heads into that trough beyant. Now be lively. The
whole gang'll be on us in less than a minute."

V.

At midnight the situation at Moreno's ranch was a strange one. The
occupants of the two rooms farthest to the east were being besieged by
ten or fifteen outlawed men, some Mexican, some "Gringo," but all
cut-throats, and up to this moment the besieged had had the best of
it.

And yet their plight was desperate. In the easternmost room, secure
from bullet or missile of any kind so long as they crouched close to
the ground and back from the door-way, lay trembling in silence old
Harvey's daughters. At the door, only the barrel of his rifle
protruding, keeping under cover all he possibly could behind an
improvised parapet of barley-bags, knelt their devoted brother, cool
and determined, every now and then whispering words of hope and
encouragement. In the adjoining room, connected with the eastern
chamber by a doorless aperture through the adobe wall, lay the
paymaster, sorely wounded, but still conscious and plucky, his
faithful clerk ministering to him as best he could, stanching the flow
of blood and comforting him with cool water. At the door-way opening
on the hard-trampled space at the southern front of the ranch,
sheltering himself behind his breastwork of barley, but never relaxing
vigilant watch, knelt Sergeant Feeny, a bandana bound about his
forehead, the blood trickling down his right cheek, the sleeve of his
flannel shirt rent by