He made his way inside the blacksmith-shop and fumbled for a match.  Just as he was about to strike it he heard the swish of oiled clothes passing, and waited for some time.  Then, igniting his punk and hiding it under his coat, he opened the door to listen.  The wind had died down now and the rain sang musically upon the metal roofs.

He ran swiftly from house to house, and, when he had done, at the apices of the triangle he had traced three glowing coals were sputtering.

The final bolt was launched at last.  He stepped down into the ditch and drew his .45, while to his tautened senses it seemed that the very hills leaned forth in breathless pause, that the rain had ceased, and the whole night hushed its thousand voices.  He found his lower jaw set so stiffly that the muscles ached.  Levelling his weapon at the eaves of the bunk-house, he pulled trigger rapidly—­the bang, bang, bang, six times repeated, sounding dull and dead beneath the blanket of mist that overhung.  A shout sounded behind him, and then the shriek of a Winchester ball close over his head.  He turned in time to see another shot stream out of the darkness, where a sentry was firing at the flash of his gun, then bent himself double and plunged down the ditch.

With the first impact overhead the men poured forth from their quarters armed and bristling, to be greeted by a volley of gunshots, the thud of bullets, and the dwindling whine of spent lead.  They leaped from shelter to find themselves girt with a fitful hoop of fire, for the “Stranglers” had spread in the arc of a circle and now emptied their rifles towards the centre.  The defenders, however, maintained surprising order considering the suddenness of their attack, and ran to join the sentries, whose positions could be determined by the nearer flashes.  The voice of a man in authority shouted loud commands.  No demonstration came from the outer voids, nothing but the wicked streaks that stabbed the darkness.  Then suddenly, behind McNamara’s men, the night glared luridly as though a great furnace-door had opened and then clanged shut, while with it came a hoarse thudding roar that silenced the rifle play.  They saw the cook-house disrupt itself and disintegrate into a thousand flying timbers and twisted sheets of tin which soared upward and outward over their heads and into the night.  As the rocking hills ceased echoing, the sound of the Vigilantes’ rifles recurred like the cracking of dry sticks, then everywhere about the defenders the earth was lashed by falling debris while the iron roofs rang at the fusillade.