front at once, and beyond doubt the cursed Yankees would succumb.  Then, no quarter, no quarter for the men.  His connection with the outlaw band was now known and these witnesses must be put to death.  Then—­then the paymaster’s safe could readily be battered open, then there was the mint of money to be divided among the victors, then away to Sonora with their spoil and with old Harvey’s beautiful daughters.  What ransom would he not be willing to pay,—­that proud, disdainful father!  Was ever luck so great?  But haste! haste!—­not a moment could be lost; they must act at once.

And so Morales hurried to station and instruct his men.  Prowling like coyotes through the darkness and at respectful distance from the guarded end of the ranch, half a dozen of the number crept into the corral.  Others were distributed over the southern front.  Three of the lighter and more slender of the band were “boosted” through the high west window into Moreno’s domain.  Then through the middle room they made their way, where sat the senora, rocking, weeping, and moaning over the body of the outlaw leader, where, hiding under the bed, shivering and praying, crouched the senorita, her daughter, and then, barefooted, they crept into the room adjoining the bar and listened, breathless, to the low-toned instructions of the veteran sergeant.  From without no glimmer of light could guide the assailants or help them in their aim.  The black apertures of the door-ways were poor marks for night shooting, and the more enterprising and adventurous, crawling like snakes to reconnoitre, were soon able to report that most scientifically had the defence thrown up their breastworks.  From group to group flitted Pasqual.  At his shrill battle-cry all hands were to rush simultaneously to the attack, firing no shot for fear of hitting one another; but with pistol in one hand and the long, deadly knife in the other, close at once upon the defenders, leap over their barriers and overwhelm them in the dark interior.  In three minutes the signal would be given.  He himself would lead the dash of the party within the corral.  Pasqual was shrewd enough to know that where there was only one door-way instead of two there would be better chance of dodging the bullets.  But keen eyes and ears and wits were there alert.  Feeny and Harvey well knew that this was but the lull before the storm.

“Lay low, boys, and be ready.  Shoot the first man that shows,” was the last caution old Plummer heard before the bursting of the tempest.

All on a sudden a wild cry went up in the corral.  All on a sudden from north and south the assailants dashed forward with answering yell.  In an instant the dark apertures flashed their lightning, and rifle and revolver-shots rang on the still night air.  Harvey’s Henry barked like a Gatling; Feeny’s old Springfield banged like a six-pounder.  Two of the assailants on the south side went down in the dust, face foremost, the others swerved, broke, and