“Coon Dogs come,” he gasped.  “I tellee you.”

Then he bolted into the shadows of the oaks and sage brush.  We pursued, but he ran fast, dodging like a rabbit, till he tumbled over and over—­paralysed by fear and fatigue.  We carried him back to the ranch-house, propped him up in a chair, and despatched Uncle Jake for a doctor.  Before midnight we learned what little there was to know.  Mary had been chased by the Coon Dogs.  He, of course, was a-foot; the cowboys were mounted.  A couple of barbed-wire fences had saved him from capture.  We had listened, that afternoon, too coolly, perhaps, to a tale of many outrages, but the horror and infamy of them were not brought home to us till we saw Mary, tattered scarred, bedraggled, lying crumpled up against the gay chintz of the arm-chair.  The poor fellow kept muttering:  “Coon Dogs come.  I know.  Killee you, killee me.  Heap bad men!”

Next morning Uncle Jake and the doctor rode up.

“I can do nothing,” said the latter, presently.  “It’s a case of shock.  He may get over it; he may not.  Another shock would kill him.  I’ll leave some medicine.”

Upon further consultation we put Mary into Ajax’s bed.  The Chinaman’s bunk-house was isolated, and the vaqueroes slept near the horse corral, a couple of hundred yards away.  Mary feebly protested:  “No likee.  Coon Dogs—­allee same debils—­killee you, killee me.  Heap bad men!”

We tried to assure him that the Coon Dogs were at heart rank curs.  Mary shook his head:  “I know.  You see.”

The day passed.  Night set in.  About ten, Mary said, convincingly—­

“Coon Dogs coming!  Coon Dogs coming!”

“No, no,” said Ajax.

I slipped out of the house.  From the marsh beyond the creek came the familiar croaking of the frogs; from the foothills in the cow-pasture came the shrilling of the crickets.  A coyote was yapping far down the valley.

“It’s all right, Mary,” said I.

“Boss, Coon Dogs come, velly quick.  I know.”

Did he really know?  What subtle instinct warned him of the approach of danger?  Who can answer such questions?  It is a fact that the Coon Dogs were on the road to our ranch, and that they arrived just one hour later.  We heard them yelling and shouting at the big gate.  Then the popping of pistols told us that the sign, clearly to be seen in the moonlight, was being riddled with bullets.

“We must face the music,” said Ajax grimly.  “Come on!”

Mary lay back on the pillow, senseless.  Passing through the sitting-room, I reminded Ajax that my duck-gun, an eight-bore, could carry two ounces of buck-shot about one hundred yards.

“We mustn’t fight ’em with their own weapons,” he answered curtly.

The popping ceased suddenly; silence succeeded.

“They’re having their bad time, too,” said Ajax.  “They are hitching their plugs to the fence.  Hullo!”

Uncle Jake slipped on to the verandah, six-shooter in hand.  Before he spoke, he spat contemptuously; then he drawled out:  “Our boys say it’s none o’ their doggoned business; they won’t interfere.”