“Answer him, you!” shouted Feeny to Mr. Dawes.  “Send a shot through and hit him if you can.”

But before the clerk could drop the fan with which he was striving to revive his fainting chief, the young fellow from Harvey’s party, he who was stationed at the north door and had been so fortunate as to shoot Morales himself, now suddenly sprang from his covert and, placing the muzzle of his Henry rifle close to the door, deliberately popped three shots in quick succession through the splintering wood-work, and, in the confusion and dismay which resulted, was able to leap nimbly into his corner again before the answering shots could come.

“Take that for your answer,” shouted Feeny again, “you black-hearted, black-bellied thafe, and take this, too, bad scran to ye!  Every dollar of that money’s in greenbacks that’ll burn as aisy as tissue, and if you want it, come and get it now.  ’Tis you that’s got no time to lose.  Come and get it, I say, for be the soul of St. Patrick you’ll never have another chance.  Just as sure as ye let that fire reach this ranch and harm those young leddies,—­old Harvey’s daughters that never did ye a harm in the world,—­every dollar in the safe goes whack into the fire, and sorra a shinplaster will you have for all your pains.  Ain’t that so, paymasther?  Shure the government ought to be mighty glad of the chance of saving all those promises to pay.”

“Bravo, Feeny!” shouted young Harvey from the adjoining room.  “We’re not smoked out yet by a good deal,” he added in lower tone.  “But if the worst comes to the worst we can make a rush for the barley-stack in the corral.  Lie still, Ruth, little sister; it won’t be any time now before the soldiers will come galloping to us.”  And, hiding her terror-stricken face in her sister’s breast, the girl obeyed.

Out at the corral gate meantime a vehement council was being held.  Feeny’s bold defiance and threat had produced their effect.  His voice had rung out above the roar of the flames, and what Morales could not hear was promptly reported by those who had crawled up nearer to the bar and could understand every word.  Even hampered by the care of their helpless women, the defence was undismayed; the little garrison was fighting with magnificent hope and courage.  Beyond the wounding of one of their number, no impression apparently had been made, whereas the bandits had a sorry loss to contemplate.  Ramon shot dead, Pasqual crippled, and the two “Gringos,” the daring and enterprising leaders of the attack, painfully wounded, one probably mortally so.  And now with the flames lighting up the whole valley between the Picacho and the Christobal, with cavalry known to be out in several squads within easy march, some of the men were already weakening.  They had had enough of it and were quite ready to slink away; but Pasqual was a raging lion.  Revenge for the death of his brother, wrath over his own crippled condition, fury at the failure of the assault, and hatred on