The McCay store was surrounded on all sides, and its four walls were scarred and pitted with bullet holes. And night was coming on rapidly. Kid Wolf saw the peril of their position. He knew, only too well, that the darkness would add to their troubles.
Twilight was deepening into dusk. Soon it became dark, and the moon would not be up for an hour. Kid Wolf, Tip McCay, and their four companions were never more alert. But even their keen eyes could not watch everything.
Young McCay was very pale. His father's death had touched him deeply, and fury against his killers burned in his glance. The others, too, were grim, thinking not of their own peril, but of the murderous Hardy gang. Thirsty for vengeance, they kept their eyes glued to their peepholes, fingers on gun triggers.
Tip had found a friend in Kid Wolf. No words were wasted on sympathy now, or regrets, but Tip knew that the drawling Texan understood.
There was little shooting being done now, and the suspense was telling on the nerves of all of them. What was Hardy up to? Would he again attempt to batter down the door and force a way in, under cover of darkness this time? But they were not left long in doubt.
"I smell smoke!" cried Blake.
Immediately afterward a sharp, crackling sound came to their ears. Hardy's gang had set fire to the store! Under cover of darkness, one of the slinking Indians had crept up and ignited a pile of oil-soaked rags against the logs of the building. The flames rose high, licking hungrily upward.
"Get water!" some one shouted.
A bucketful or two from their supply tossed accurately through a loophole by Kid Wolf extinguished the blaze before it could rise higher. It was a close call, and it showed them what to expect now. The Indian's mistake had been in setting his fire where it could be reached by the defenders.
"We were pretty blamed lucky," Caldwell began. "If thet fire——"