“One more chance, Cameron, or we’ll put a bullet through your friend here.  Come down, or we’ll—­”

Something struck him heavily and he fell, with a bullet in the shoulder.  He struggled to his feet and gained the shelter of the wall, his face twisted with pain.

“All right,” he said, “if that’s the way you feel about it!”

He regained the barn and had his arm supported in an extemporized sling.  Then he ordered Pink to be tied, and fighting down his pain considered the situation.  Cameron was on the roof, and armed.  Even if he had no extra shells he still had five shots in reserve, and he would not waste any of them.  Whoever tried to scale the walls would be done in at once; whoever attempted to follow him to the roof by way of the loft would be shot instantly.  And his own condition demanded haste; the bullet, striking from above, had broken his arm.  Every movement was torture.

He thought of setting fire to the barn.  Then Cameron would have the choice of two things, to surrender or to be killed.  He might get some of them first, however.  Well, that was a part of the game.

He delivered a final ultimatum from the shelter of the doorway.

“I’ve just thought of something, Cameron,” he called.  “We’re going to fire the barn.  Your young friend is here, tied, and we’ll leave him here.  Do you get that?  Either throw down that gun of yours, and come down, or I’m inclined to think you’ll be up against it.  I’ll give you a minute or so to think it over.”

At half-past eleven o’clock that night the first of four automobiles drove into Friendship.  It was driven by a hatless young man in a raincoat over a suit of silk pajamas, and it contained four County detectives and the city Chief of Police.  Behind it, but well outdistanced, came the other cars, some of them driven by leading citizens in a state of considerable deshabille.

At a cross street in Friendship the lead car drew up, and flashlights were turned on a road map in the rear of the car.  There was some argument over the proper road, and a member of the state constabulary, riding up to investigate, showed a strong inclination to place them under arrest.

It took a moment to put him right.

“Wish I could go along,” he said, wistfully.  “The place you want is back there.  I can’t leave the town, but I’ll steer you out.  You’ll probably run into some of our fellows back there.”

He rode on ahead, his big black horse restive in the light from the lamps behind him.  At the end of a lane he stopped.

“Straight ahead up there,” he said.  “You’ll find—­”

He broke off and stared ahead to where a dull red glare, reflected on the low hanging clouds, had appeared over the crest of the hill.

“Something doing up there,” he called suddenly.  “Let’s go.”

He jerked his revolver free, dug his heels into the flanks of his horse, and was off on a dead run.  Half way up the hill the car passed him, the black going hard, and its rider’s face, under the rim of his uniform hat, a stern profile.  His reins lay loose on the animal’s neck, and he was examining his gun.