The enemy answered the shots with a volley, and for a few moments a lot of ammunition was wasted while the odor of gunpowder assailed nostrils on both sides.

After that, the shooting died away.  As the minutes lengthened into an hour, and no word of Tad’s mission had been received, the defenders began to grow restless.  They were under a double tension now.  Mr. Marquand was pacing up and down the floor.

Suddenly, forgetful of the danger that lurked out there, he poked his head out of the window.

A sharp pat on the stone window frame beside him, after the bullet had snipped off the tip of his left ear, caused Mr. Marquand to draw back suddenly.  He stalked about the floor, holding a handkerchief to the wounded ear, “talking in dashes and asterisks,” as Chunky put it.

Kris Kringle’s face wore a grim smile.  He was taking chances of being shot, every second now, but he insisted in holding his place at the side of the window so he could listen and watch.

A thin, fleecy veil covered the moon, but it was not dense enough to fully hide objects on the landscape.

“All keep quiet, now,” warned Kris Kringle.  “We should get a signal pretty soon.”

“I’m afraid something has happened to the boy,” muttered the Professor.  Then all fell silent.

“There it goes!” exclaimed the guide in a tone of great relief.

The crack of a rifle afar off sounded clear and distinct.

“He’s made it.  Thank heaven!” breathed Mr. Marquand fervently.

Chunky leaped to the opening, swung his sombrero as he leaned out, and uttered a long, shrill “y-e-o-w!”

A bullet chipped the adobe at his side.  Stacy ducked, throwing himself on the floor, sucking a thumb energetically.

“Wing you?” inquired Kris Kringle.

“Somebody burned my thumb,” wailed the fat boy.

“It was a bullet that burned you.  Served you right too.  Somebody tie that boy up or he’ll be killed,” counseled the guide.

The besiegers could not have failed to hear the shot from Tad’s rifle, but it did not seem to disturb them.  They evidently did not even dream that one of the party had escaped their vigilance and that he was well on his way for assistance.

The wait from that time on was a tedious and trying one, though each felt a certain sense of elation that Tad Butler had succeeded in outwitting the enemy.

It was shortly after two o’clock in the morning when Kris Kringle espied a party of horsemen slowly encircling the adobe house.  The riders were strung out far off on the plain.  Those hiding in the sage in front of the house could not see the approaching horsemen.

“There they come,” whispered Kris Kringle.  “Begin shooting!”

The two men started firing, while the besiegers poured volley after volley through the window.

The posse at this, closed in at a gallop.  Their rifles now began to crash.