Angela, hearing something outside, had rushed to the door and looked into the growing darkness.  “I thought—­What was that?” she exclaimed.

They all listened.  Far off a shot could be heard—­then another.  But it must have been miles away.

“Red” sprang up.  “Rangers!” he cried.  “They’re shooting!”

“Where are they?” Hardy asked.

“In the arroyo,” “Red” replied.  He was at the window, looking out.  “You’ll see ’em in a minute.”

The sound of shots came nearer.  It was as though a miniature army were storming the section near the adobe.

Uncle Henry, sitting in the alcove, was terrified.  “What’s that?” came his piercing voice.

“They see him!” cried “Red.”

“Do you think they can hit him?” Angela cried.

“Red” was certain they could not.  “There ain’t a chance, at that range,” he said.

But Uncle Henry was not so sure.  “Mebbe they might, by accident.”

“Red” turned.  “Accidents don’t happen in Arizona—­leastwise not with guns.”

The horses’ hoof beats came nearer.  Yet in all the excitement, Lucia did not move.  She was keeping her silent place by the body of Morgan Pell.  She did not even raise her head.

“Here they come!” cried Angela, leaning out the doorway.

“Red” had gone out of the room; but he came back now.  “Better get inside,” he warned them all, definite fear in his voice.  “We’re in range.  It’s pretty dangerous.  As I said, accidents don’t happen down in this country.”

“But I want to see!” cried Angela, dancing with excitement now.

“Red” was distracted.  “Please come in, Angela,” he begged.  More shots were heard.  He was frightened for everyone.  He had lived too long down here not to know the meaning of such desperate shooting.  “What the h——­” Two bullets came through the window, and smashed a little mirror that hung on the wall near the staircase.  The bits of glass fell to the floor with a loud crash.

“What’s the matter?” came the terrified voice of Uncle Henry.  His hands clung to the wheels of his chair.  But he did not budge it.

“Red” had not been able to dodge a shot.  “Right through the hat!” he cried, and waved his Stetson.  Sure enough, a bullet had gone clean through his headgear.  Had he lifted his face a few inches higher, he would have been shot himself.

More hoof beats.  Yet Lucia never moved.

“Bullet?” asked Hardy.

“Yes,” “Red” replied.  “And it was spang new—­this hat.  Cost eighteen dollars!” He was still looking at the tattered Stetson.

“Oh, it might have hit you!” Angela cried and embraced him.

“Told you we’d better keep inside!” “Red” said.

“You bet—­until they go by,” Hardy agreed.

“Red” stepped forward.  “Back, everybody!” he ordered.  He pushed everyone farther back into the room, until they were all crowded in one corner.  Uncle Henry was trembling like a leaf.  How he wished he had never been brought to this strange country!  Oh, for the peace of Bangor, Maine! There was a place for you!  Down here it was all shooting, killing, and desperate trouble.  Having escaped one crisis, was it possible the fates were to be so unkind as to put him in the way of another, from which there might be no extrication?  Curse the luck, anyhow.  Gol darn it!