Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1915-12-12

aperture from the outside Behind it,
in the Pickering yellow play of the fire,
point of formidable bright metal
would now and then flash out in high
relief. Behind that again. one could just
suspect the shadowy lines of human
form. 1t must be the girl guarding her
citadel with the little ID.
What more instantly concerned us,
however, was the position of Flynn and
Doak. That interesting pair of raiders
had obviously suffered a setback They
We're both at the rear of the house, out of
range of the doorway and in relative dark
ness. Did | mention that the shack had
only the one opening? window or
anything of the sort.
Flynn, half crouched on the ground, NUT
tering and cursing, was tying up his leg
with a rag that had been handkerchief.
Doak, paying no attention to him, rifle in
hand, busily gathered up chips, dry twigs,
cones, and so on, heaping them against the
back-wall of the house. He also kept
awatchful eye on the situation at the front
Before we could get round to the edge
of the clearing nearest them, Flynn was
standing on his feet again, manifestly
only trifingly hurt, and Doak had
mounded up heap of wood against the
logs of the shack. Together, they then
crawled low along the upper side of the
shack to the front. 4 ,~,.s..
This should, by all odds, have been our
time to rush. But we'd had to move so
slowly, we were not ready.
WHEN Doak reached the front of the
cabin, he stretched out and grabbed
partly burned brand from the campfire.
drawing no shot from the girl, and retreat
ing to the back of the house with his flare
in safety. Flynn remained at the side in
front. He was squatting on his heels,
his big blue siX-shooter in his hand.
"Now, then, you young she-devil!" he
snarled at the doorway. "Are you coming
out? Or will we have to burn you out?"
He waited. No sign from the cabin
"All right, said Whiskey. well give
you till l count ten. But you hear me!
You'd better come quick! We're going
to get you, if we have to kill you for it!
Ten-do you hear? Tent He began
slowly to count.
At last Ericsson and were set for the
rush. In tho very innermost possible
fringe of the encirclng trees we hung,
perhaps thirty feet from Flynn, forty from
Doak. AS the grizzled sheep-herder dog
raucously counted off his long seconds,
and young Doak waved the brand about
his head Ericsson whispered in my ear:
an knock the gun out of Whiskey's
hand and go for Billy. He won't be able
to get his Winchester up in time You
tend to Whiskey with the little 30. y
He dropped the rope; his right hand,
with the Ratchet in it, swung back over
his shoulder.
"Ten!" shouted Flynn. Fire her,
boy!"
Ericsson breathed, "Now!"
That Ratchet! Thirty feet is a pretty
husky throw for such a tool-and the
light was none too good. But the way
that revolving edge and handle hurtled
through the air! Whiskey had the big
single-action Colts outstretched before
him, leveled but not cooked. Clack!
Ericsson's Ratchet struck it like bolt of
lightning, head on, just across the cyin-
der. The gun whirled round at right
angles, tearing itself out of Flynn's grasp
With a yell, Whiskey jerked the hand back
in against himself and rose to his full