ought him here. Now he reached for
one of the Colts, resting it on his body at chest level.

"Who are they?" he whispered, glancing at the prisoners.

"Guerrillas," Drew replied.

"More company comin'?"

"Might be. Anse went for the boys."

But Boyd's chin lifted an inch or two, a slight gesture to indicate the
ceiling again. He brought his other hand up, and using both, cocked the
Colt, that click carrying with almost a shot's sharp twang through the
room.

Jas' was again staring at Drew, his lips a silent snarl. But the scout
believed that as long as he was alert, weapons in hand, he had nothing
more to fear from his prisoners. They had made their reckless gamble and
had lost.

The opening at the top of the ladder was a square of dark, hardly
touched by the flickering light of the dying fire.

"You theah...." The barking hail came from without, strident, startling.
"We have you surrounded."

It was the voice of an educated man with the regional softening of
vowels. Simmy's cap'n? What then had happened to Weatherby? Boyd braced
the barrel of his Colt on a bent knee, its sights centered on the front
door. But Drew still watched the loft opening.

"Last chance ... come out with your hands up!" The voice was very close
now. And the unknown apparently knew at least part of the situation in
the cabin. Which meant either very clever scouting, or that they had
taken Weatherby. But Drew, knowing the habits of the guerrillas, dared
not follow that last thought far. He tried to locate the man outside; he
was in front all right, but surely not directly in line with the door.

"Cap'n!" Jas' called, his gaze daring Drew to shoot. "There's only two
of 'em, and one's sick."

There was a flicker of movement in the trap opening. Drew fired, to be
answered by a yelp of pain and surprise. Perhaps he had not entirely
removed one of the attackers from the effective list, but the fellow
would be more cautious from now on.

There was only a short second between his shot and an answering
fusillade from outside. The panes in the other windows shattered and
Hatch, gurgling incoherently behind his gag, kicked to roll himself
behind the flimsy protection of the bedstead.

"You almost got one of your own men then!" Drew called. Feverishly he
tried to think of a way to play for time. Weatherby might be dead, but
Kirby could have reached the headquarters camp and already be well on
his way back with reinforcements.

Hatch's gurg