A few minutes later, Yorke, after first challenging Redmond cautiously, crept up beside his comrade below the sheltering river-bank.

“Did you get him?” he queried in a tense whisper.

“No, I don’t think so,” muttered Redmond disconsolately, “but—­he d——­d near got me—­look!”

He exhibited his Stetson hat.  A clean bullet perforation showed in the pinched-up top.  “I could have got him—­easy,” he added, “when he first opened the window.  Wish I had, now—­but you know what Burke said—­about getting him alive—­I only loosed off after he’d thrown down on me.  I was scared for you and Burke, though!  I could see you both backing up—­after he’d shot through the door.”

Bang!  A dull, muffled report detonated within the building.  The ominous echoes gradually died away, and the stillness of the night settled over all once more.

The crouching policemen stared at each other strangely.  “Hear that?” ejaculated Redmond, with a startled oath, “By G——­d! he’s shot himself! must have—­it sounded muffled. . . .  All over!  I’ll bet his brains—­”

He broke off short and, shoving the barrel of his carbine over the edge of the bank, he commenced to clamber up.  “Wait a second! . . .  Good God, Red! don’t do that!” snarled Yorke warningly.  “He’s as cunning as a blasted lobo.  May be it’s only a tr—­”

The entreaty died in his throat.  Crack!  A spurt of flame shot from the opened window, and Redmond, with a gasping exclamation of rage and pain, toppled backwards onto the shingle, his carbine clattering down beside him.  Fearful of relaxing his vigilance even at this crisis, the maddened Yorke flung up his weapon and sent shot after shot crashing through the open casement.  All could hear the smashing, rending sounds of havoc his bullets were creating within.

“Doctor!” he shouted.  “Oh, Doctor!  Come on round quick!” In a hoarse aside he spat out feverishly, “Red!  Red! my old son! . . . hit bad?  Where’d you get it?”

“Shoulder!  Oh-h!” gasped poor Redmond, moaning and rolling on the shingle in his agony, “Oh, Christ, it hurts!”

There came a crashing in the undergrowth on their right, and presently a crouching form came creeping rapidly towards them under cover of the sheltering bank.  In a terse aside Yorke acquainted the doctor with the details of his comrade’s mischance, keeping a wary eye meanwhile on the window.  The ex-naval surgeon wasted no time in unnecessary question or comment, but with the grim composure of an old campaigner swiftly proceeded to render first aid to the wounded man.

“Right shoulder—­low down!” he presently vouch-safed to the anxious Yorke.  “Trust it’s missed the lung! . . . can’t tell yet! . . .  I must get him away the best way I can.  No! . . . don’t move, Yorke!  You keep on your mark!  I can pack him I think.  I’ll get him to the buckboard somehow.  This is going to be a long siege, I’m thinking.  You’ll be getting reinforcements later.  Slavin told me to send for them.”