“Two strangers out there, sergeant;—­say they’re prospectors and been jumped by Apaches.”

“Hwere away are they?” Then in low tone, “Go you out beyond the corral,” he whispered to old Plummer.  “There’s four of them out there.  Challenge if they try to come in.”  Then aloud again, “Shure, I don’t see anything, sentry.”

“Right out ahead there, sergeant.  Two men, mounted.”

“Come down, one of ye.  Dismount and come in here.  Lave your gun behind.  Give your reins to your pal there,” was Feeny’s next mandate.

There was a moment of hesitation, a faint sound of whispering as though the self-styled prospectors were in consultation, and again Feeny spoke in tone more sharp and imperative,—­

“Dismount one, I say.  Come in here, or I’ll send a bullet for your cards.  Quick now.”

Still another delay.  The “prospectors” seemed anxious to edge off into deeper darkness.

“If ye’re not off that horse’s back in ten seconds, be jabers, I’ll fire, so be lively.”  And as his excitement rose so did Feeny’s Irish.

Four—­five seconds ticked by and still there was no approach.  Fiercely, with sharp emphasis, the sergeant brought his carbine to full cock.  “It’s aiming I am,” said he, as he quickly raised the butt to his shoulder.  There was a sudden scurry and scramble of horses’ hoofs, low-voiced words of warning and a muttered curse or two.  Then leaped a tongue of fire into the night, and from the corral corner came sharp report, followed by a cry, a gurgle, a groan, then silence.

“My God! they’ve shot the major,” exclaimed Harvey, as he leaped away in the direction of the shot.  At the same moment away sped the two horsemen in front of the post.  No use to fire.  They were shrouded in thick darkness and out of harm’s way before one could pull trigger.  Then came two flashes, two quick reports, then half a dozen rapid, sputtering revolver-shots, then a vengeful howl and a rush out on the plain.  Feeny ran like a deer on the trail of Mr. Harvey, and in less time than it takes to tell it they came upon the paymaster, sinking shocked and nerveless to the sandy soil, his hands clasping on his side.

“Pick him up, you and your man there; carry him into the ranch.  I’ll bate back those blackguards yet,” muttered Feeny, as he took a quick snap shot at some dim object flitting across the plain and sent another into the darkness, aiming vaguely where he could hear the thud of horses’ hoofs.  For a moment, running from point to point after each discharge, he kept up a rapid fusillade, under cover of which the hapless paymaster was borne swiftly away around the corner of the ranch and carried into the bar, where, wild with anxiety, but faithful to his trust, Mr. Dawes still guarded the safe.  Then Harvey stepped through the narrow door-way to the eastern room.

“I have to borrow the lamp a moment, Fan,” he whispered.  “Now lie still.  We may have to stand a siege awhile until father can reach us.”