In Powers’ old ranch house the night dragged along slowly to the grim watcher, and the man huddled in the corner stirred uneasily and babbled, ofttimes crying out in horror at the vivid dreams of his disordered mind.  Pacing ceaselessly from window to window, crack to crack, when the moon came up, Mr. Connors scanned the bare, level plain with anxious eyes, searching out the few covers and looking for dark spots on the dull gray sand.  They never attacked at night, but still—.  Through the void came the quavering call of a coyote, and he listened for the reply, which soon came from the black chaparral across the clearing.  He knew where two of them were hiding, anyhow.  Holden was muttering and tried to answer the calls, and Red looked at him for the hundredth time that night.  He glanced out of the window again and noticed that there was a glow in the eastern sky, and shortly afterwards dawn swiftly developed.

Pouring the last few drops of the precious water between the wounded man’s parched and swollen lips, he tossed the empty canteen from him and stood erect.

“Pore devil,” he muttered, shaking his head sorrowfully, as he realized that Holden’s delirium was getting worse all the time.  “If you was all right we could give them wolves hell to dance to.  Well, you won’t know nothing about it if we go under, an’ that’s some consolation.”  He examined his rifle and saw that the Colt at his thigh was fully loaded and in good working order.  “An’ they’ll pay us for their victory, by God!  They’ll pay for it!” He stepped closer to the window, throwing the rifle into the hollow of his arm.  “It’s about time for the rush; about time for the game—­”

There was movement by that small chaparral to the south!  To the east something stirred into bounding life and action; a coyote called twice—­and then they came, on foot and silently as fleeting shadows, leaning forward to bring into play every ounce of energy in the slim, red legs.  Smoke filled the room with its acrid sting.  The crashing of the Winchester, worked with wonderful speed and deadly accuracy by the best rifle shot in the Southwest, brought the prostrate man to his feet in an instinctive response to the call to action, the necessity of defence.  He grasped his Colt and stumbled blindly to a window to help the man who had stayed with him.

On Red’s side of the house one warrior threw up his arms and fell forward, sprawling with arms and legs extended; another pitched to one side and rolled over twice before he lay still; the legs of the third collapsed and threw him headlong, bunched up in a grotesque pile of lifeless flesh; the fourth leaped high into the air and turned a somersault before he struck the sand, badly wounded, and out of the fight.  Holden, steadying himself against the wall, leaned in a window on the other side of the shack and emptied his Colt in a dazed manner—­doing his very best.  Then the man with the rifle staggered back with a muttered curse, his right arm useless, and dropped the weapon to draw his Colt with the other hand.