Half an hour later, the rafters of the ranch having by this time tumbled in and turned the interior into a glowing furnace, there came riding from the west a slender skirmish line of horsemen in the worn campaign dress of the regular cavalry.  With the advance there were not more than six or eight, a tall, slender lieutenant leading them on and signalling his instructions.  With carbines advanced, with eyes peering out from under the jagged hat-brims, the veteran troopers came loping into the light of the flames, expectant every instant of hearing the crack of outlaw’s rifle, or perhaps the hiss of feathered arrow of unseen foe.  Though some of the steeds looked hot and wearied, the big raw-boned sorrel that carried the young commander tugged at his bit and bounded impatiently as though eager for the signal—­“charge.”  Straight into the circle of light, straight to the southern entrance, now a gate of flame, the soldier rode and loudly hailed “Moreno!”

But hissing, snapping wood-work alone replied.  Guided by an experienced sergeant, some of the troopers, never halting, rode on into the eastward darkness, and there were stationed as videttes to guard against surprise.  Returning to where he had passed his lieutenant, the sergeant dismounted, allowing his weary horse to stand, and then began minute examination.  Following the freshest hoof-tracks, he found the young officer riding about through the thick smoke within the corral.

“Any sign of Moreno or his people, sir?” he hailed.

“Not yet.  Just see what’s beyond that door-way.  My horse is frightened at something there and I can’t see for the smoke.”

Obedient, the sergeant pushed ahead, bending low to avoid the stifling fumes.  Between the tumbled-down heap of barley-sacks and the crumbling wall lay some writhing objects in the sand, and his stout heart almost failed him at the moan of agony that met his ear.

“Help! water!  Oh, for Christ’s sake, water!”

One bound carried him out of sight of his superior.  The next instant, dragging by the foot a prostrate form, he emerged from the bank into the fresher air of the centre of the corral.  Off came his canteen and was held to the parched lips of a stranger in scorched civilian dress, his beard and hair singed by the flames, his legs and arms securely bound.

“Who are you and what’s happened?  Whose work is this?” demanded the lieutenant, leaping from saddle to his side.  The man seemed swooning away, but the sergeant dashed water in his face.

“Quick!—­the others!—­or they’ll burn to death.”

“What others?  Where, man?” exclaimed the soldiers, springing to their feet.

“Oh! somewhere in there,—­the far end of the corral—­or Moreno’s west room,” was the gasping reply.