Thrusting the muzzle of his weapon close to the shattered panel he pulled the trigger, and a howl of rage answered it. This shot had not missed.
Before giving the attackers a chance to do further damage Hippy fired the remaining chambers of his revolver through the door in quick succession. He did not know whether or not he had made a hit, but he knew that, for the moment, he had effectively checked operations out there.
A few seconds were lost in reloading, during which not a sound reached him from the outside. Stooping over, he peered through the shattered panel. As he did so there came a sudden burst of rifle fire and a dozen bullets ripped through the door.
Lieutenant Wingate straightened up, staggered, clapped a hand to his head, half turned and crashed full length to the floor. As he lay there, bullets continued to thud through the door and the siding of the ranch-house, then ceased as suddenly as they had begun, but Hippy, some moments since, had ceased to hear or know.
CHAPTER XII
AT THE LAST MOMENT
“Smoke him out!” came the sharp command after the firing had died down. “That’ll fetch the critter. Then git him.”
Some dead grass, a handful of chips and a match did the work, and a flickering blaze was soon started under one corner of the ranch-house.
“Now the hosses!” commanded the same voice. “Two of ye git behind the house to watch for him, the others go fer the mustangs in the corral.”
The men ran to obey the orders of their leader, when a sudden shout from one of them changed the plans of the attackers entirely. It was a shout of warning. Following it the ruffians plainly heard the sound of hoof-beats approaching—many of them. They were coming at what the trained ears of the mountain ruffians told them was a killing pace.
“Hit the trail!” yelled the leader. “Go south and scatter! Hit it hard!” came the further orders.