They turned, panic-stricken; the torches fell flaring to the ground,
to lie there in pools of flame; the brigands ran for the nearest
shelter, the dark bulk of the ranch house close by. They ran, fear
tingling their spines, in their ears the sound of the maddened
phantis.

* * * * *

From his vantage point on the roof of the ranch house, the Hawk
confirmed his quick decision that this was the only way.

Rapidly, as was his custom, he had reckoned the problem out minutely
and carefully; had considered and checked every possibility. He had
to shoot the fence, not the brigands. For he couldn't hope to get more
than a couple of them: a pirate toppling over dead would jar the
others into instant action; they would scatter in the darkness,
leaving the odds too great. And leaving, besides, small chance of
wiping out every one of the pirates.

As for Friday, he had to take his chance. There was, this way, a good
chance, if he used his brain. For, to the left, as close as the ranch
house to the corral, were the grave-pits he himself had dug some hours
before, and one was still empty, waiting to be filled. It offered
shelter, a good chance--if he used his brain. He, Carse, would do all
he could to protect him from the stampeding beasts while he ran.

Some of the pirates would be snared by the rush of phantis. Four or
five would probably reach the ranch house. That was what he wanted.

And that was what he got. His fifth shot fired, straight and true from
the ray-gun of the most accurate marksman of space, the Hawk lowered
the weapon and gazed at the scene resulting, a ghost of a smile on his
lips.

He saw the mob of creatures, in a bedlam of noise, sweep under the
fence that had for so long kept them back. Bellowing their hatred,
their cruel spurs eager for blood, they charged. Before them fled the
thin fringe of men, Friday on one flank. A man went down with a
scream; a half-grown horn knifed into him; he was trampled, gored,
spurred, and left a bloody welter of death in seconds. Another,
hearing the loud thud of feet just behind, turned with desperate eyes,
dodged, tripped, shrieked and was caught and ripped. Another and
another. In the dancing, flickering half-light of the flames of fire
and torches, a hellish scene of devastation and death spun out.

* * * * *

Carse was shooting again, with the cold mechanical precision of a
machine. There was Friday to