All at once the hammering strokes ceased and the rattle of rifle fire died out in a desultory spatter as stray bullets impinged against the stout adobe wall.
Jim Baggott from his perch upon a heap of chairs before the window called out in amazement:
"They've drawn back clear across the road! Reckon they've given it up as a bad job at last! The dawn's almost here."
"Don't fool yourself!" A burly gang foreman rested his rifle against the wall and seized avidly upon the dipper of water held out to him by one of the women. "Thanks, ma'am.—Maybe they're just taking a breathing spell, but it's my opinion they're planning some new devilment. Alvarez knows that once that door's down——"
He glanced toward the woman and the sentence ended in a shrug.
"What's the matter with Geoff?" Baggott for the first time had noted the inert form stretched upon the couch.
"Dad's hit," Billie responded simply.
"Is he bad?" The foreman's tone was hushed.
"I'm afraid so. He's dreadfully cold; he's—he's bleeding internally, I think. Perhaps, if a surgeon comes in time——"
"A what?" Baggott exploded. "Gosh almighty, where's a surgeon coming from?"