three-quarters, Phyllis looked at her watch
by the light of a full moon, which shone through the window of her
bedroom. The hands indicated five minutes to one.

In her stocking feet she stole out of the room, downstairs, and along
the porch to the heavy shadows cast by the cucumber vines that screened
one end of it. Here she waited, heart in mouth and pulse beating like a
trip hammer.

Presently came the mournful hoot of an owl from the live oaks over in
the pasture. Softly her clear, melodious voice flung back the signal.
Again the minutes drummed eternally in silence.

But when at last this was shattered, it was with a crash to wake the
dead. The girl marvelled that one man could fire so rapidly, and so
often. The night seemed to crackle with rifle and revolver shots. To
judge from the sound, there might be a company engaged.

The expected happened. The door of the cabin, in which lay the prisoner
and Tom Dixon, was flung open. A dark form filled the doorway, and the
moonlight gleamed on the shining barrel of a rifle. For an instant Tom
stood so, trying to locate the source of the firing. He disappeared into
the cabin, then reappeared. The door was closed and locked. Taking what
cover he could find, Tom slipped over the fence, and into the mesquite
on the other side of the road.

Phyllis darted forward like a flame. Her trembling fingers fitted a key
to the lock of the cabin. Opening the door, she slipped in and closed it
behind her.

"Where are you?" her young voice breathed.

"Over here by the fireplace. What is it all about, Miss Sanderson?"

She groped her way to him. "Never mind now. We've got to hurry. Are you
tied?"

"Yes--hands and feet."

A beam of light through the window showed the flash of a knife. With a
few hacks of the blade, she had freed him. He was about to rise when the
door opened and a head was thrust in.

"What's the row, Tom?"

Weaver growled an answer. "He isn't here. Pulled out when the firing
began. I wish you'd tell me what it is all about."

But the head was already withdrawn, and its owner scudding toward the
fray. Phyllis rose from the foot of the cot, where she had crouched.

"Come!" she told the cattleman imperiously, and led the way from the
cabin in a hurried flight for the porch shadows.

They had scarcely reached these when another half-clad figure emerged
from the house, rifle in hand, and plunged across the road into the
cacti. He, too, headed for the scene of