ot far from him, three
others were seated around a small fire some distance to the north, and
four others, one of whom carried a rope, made their way into the brush.
He strained at his bonds, decided that the effort was useless and
watched the man on the stump, who struck a match and lit a pipe. The
prisoner watched the light flicker up and go out and there was left in
his mind a picture that he could never forget. The face which had been
so cruelly, so grotesquely revealed was that of Frenchy McAllister, and
across his knees lay a heavy caliber Winchester. A curse escaped from
the lips of the outlaw; the man on the stump spat at a firefly and
smiled.

From the south came the crack of rifles, incessant and sharp. The
reports rolled from one end of the clearing to the other and seemed to
sweep in waves from the center of the line to the ends. Faintly in the
infrequent lulls in the firing came an occasional report from the rear
of the corral, where some desperate rustler paid for his venture.

Buck went along the line and spoke to the riflemen, and after some time
had passed and the light had become stronger, he collected the men into
groups of five and six. Taking one group and watching it closely, it
could be seen that there was a world of meaning in this maneuver. One
man started firing at a particular window in an opposite hut and then
laid aside his empty gun and waited. When the muzzle of his enemy's gun
came into sight and lowered until it had nearly gained its sight level,
the rifles of the remainder of the group crashed out in a volley and
usually one of the bullets, at least, found its intended billet. This
volley firing became universal among the besiegers and the effect was
marked.

Two men sprinted from the edge of the woods near Mr. Trendley's cabin
and gained the shelter of the storehouse, which soon broke out in
flames. The burning brands fell over the main collection of huts, where
there was much confusion and swearing. The early hour at which the
attack had been delivered at first led the besieged to believe that
it was an Indian affair, but this impression was soon corrected by the
volley firing, which turned hope into despair. It was no great matter
to fight Indians, that they had done many times and found more or less
enjoyment in it; but there was a vast difference between brave and
puncher, and the chances of their salvation became very small. They
surmised that it was the work of the cow-men on