en
many of the horses started in fear. It was the lifeless body of
Donovan's companion, the soldier who had escaped the assassin's bullet
when "Patsy" fell only to be overtaken and cut down half-way to
Moreno's.

"It's the bloodiest night I've known even in Arizona," said Lee to his
young leader. "The paymaster and Mr. Harvey about as good as dead, old
Feeny dying, most like, the clerk and Mullan and some other trooper of
the escort burned to ashes in that hell-hole there, and Donovan and
this last one--some of our fellows think is Flynn, from 'F'
troop--shot to death. It's worse than Apache, lieutenant, and there'll
be no use trying to restrain our fellows when we catch the
blackguards."

Quarter of an hour later, leaving half a dozen soldiers under an
experienced sergeant to guard the packs, the wounded, and the
non-combatants at the smouldering ruins of the ranch, with barely a
score of seasoned troopers at his back, Lieutenant Jim Drummond rode
resolutely out towards the southern desert, towards the distant line
of jagged mountains that spanned the far horizon. The false and fatal
blaze at the Picacho had utterly disappeared, and all was darkness at
the west. The red glow of the smouldering embers behind was no longer
sufficient to light their path. Straight away southward led the
wheel-tracks, first separate and distinct, but soon blending, as
though one wagon had fallen behind and followed the trail of the
bolder leader in the first. Straight away after them went the ruck of
hoof-tracks, telling plainly that for a time at least the gang had
massed and was prepared to guard its plunder. Stop to divide it was
evident they dared not, for they had not with them the implements to
break into the safe, and all their searching and threatening had
failed to extract from the apparently dying paymaster any clue as to
what he had done with the key. Stick together, therefore, they
undoubtedly would, reasoned the lieutenant, and all their effort would
be to reach some secure haunt in the Sierras, and there send back
their demand for ransom. Twenty-five thousand dollars in cash and
George Harvey's precious daughters! It was indeed a rich haul,--one
that in all the dread history of the Morales gang had never been
equalled. Even had they failed to secure the safe the richer booty was
theirs in having seized the girls. But few people in Arizona--as
Arizona then was constituted--would make great effort to overhaul a
gang of robb