“They’re firing the barn,” said Hard, grimly.
They were. It blazed like a child’s bonfire and the shouts and curses of the disappointed Yaquis rose with the flames.
In another moment the Indians had ridden toward the house. Polly, who in spite of orders, had crept toward the window saw them in amazement. Between the moon and the light of the blazing barn, they were distinctly visible.
“But they can’t be Indians!” she exclaimed, at Scott’s elbow. “They’re just like our Mexicans!”
“Did you expect them to wear scalp locks? Get out of range, quick! Hard, cover the second chap, there. I’m going to give the first boy a shock. They’ll be in here in half a minute if I don’t.”
His shot rang out and the bullet flew over the Indian’s head. It was close enough to make him pull his horse to its haunches while those behind him did the same.
“While I’m talking to him, you women slide out the back door,” muttered Scott, hurriedly. “Make for the stream and the horses while they’re watching us. Hello, out there, what do you want?” he said in Spanish.
Mrs. Conrad gripped Polly’s arm. “Come!” she said.
“We can’t!” demurred the girl. “We can’t leave them like this.”
“Come!” repeated Clara, angrily. “Do you want to fall into their hands?” Polly, too frightened by her tone to resist, crept softly behind her. They heard the Indian at whom Scott had fired answer. To Polly it meant nothing, but Clara’s ears, accustomed to the tongue, caught an angry demand for horses, food and money.