“If the moon only shone brighter!” muttered Jack, his eyes gleaming viciously. “I’d give my left hand for a fair shot at that devil, Morton!”
“I know him now. If he’s wise, he’ll keep out of range. Look! yonder they come!”
The rifles of the brothers clicked ominously, and then two dark muzzles protruded slightly from the small loop holes. The house had been built with an eye to defense against the Indians though until now the settler had been unmolested. The outlaw whom he had shot, he detected riding off on a valuable stallion, the day before, and at his rifle’s crack, Israel Hackett fell dead. Horse-stealing was regarded as an even more heinous crime than murder, in those days.
Jasper Morton had chuckled fiendishly, as he heard the shot and death-cry. He believed that his plans had been successfully carried out. But he became uneasy at the long delay of his acolyte, and gave the signal as stated. No answer coming, he began to suspect the truth, and mustering his men, was now approaching the dark and silent building.
“When you are sure of your aim, Jack,” muttered Colton, “tell me.”
“I’m ready now.”
“Then—fire!”
Two whiplike reports rung out upon the clear night air, sounding almost like one. Two of the Night Hawks fell to the ground, writhing in their death-agonies. Wild cries broke from the survivors, and with one accord they broke and fled, seeking the nearest cover, for the moment completely demoralized.
The brothers laughed, and quickly reloaded their weapons. But Mary seemed greatly agitated. As Henry noted her pale and frightened face, she murmured
“What if they fire the house!”