Behind the L of the adobe house Hope cowered with Doren, dry-eyed, their clothing drenched. She had fought fire in the fields with her father and the other white men until she saw flames coming out of the house. Then she had carried water from the little well in the yard and thrown it on the woodwork, till there was no more water. They did not know when the fire had started, or how, until, as they fought the flames and began to drive them back, a row of Indian heads rose up from the _acequia’s_ rim and a tomahawk neatly swept Bragdon’s hat from his head. The Indians pushed the handful of white men back and back. Hope emptied her father’s shotgun down the hill without avail, and now the men had their backs to the flaming house and the last shot had been fired at the assailants, who still kept under cover. The Pueblos saw that the white men had no more ammunition with them, and a half dozen men sprang forward. Hope, peering round the corner, did not know whether to snatch this opportunity to run towards Santa Fe with Doren or to try to hide among the hills. Just as the Indians and white men grappled, a new fighter appeared suddenly and sprang into the fray, tripping, kicking, shooting. After a few minutes of panting struggle the Indians melted away, the shouting died down. It was quite dark now. Hope ran around the house with Doren and up to her father. Bragdon sat on the ground, a bullet sunk in his leg. Juan came running out of the house, bearing in his arms the remainder of the fire--a mass of inflammable stuff which had been carried in and set in flames inside--and when he and Steven had beaten out the flaming, smoldering cloth and woodwork within they all retreated into the house. The Americans all were exhausted. The skirmish had been going on all day. They had not eaten since early in the morning. The walls were standing, but the place was ruined, and the rancho of the settlers below was probably in ashes. The two other Americans had come to Bragdon’s help when they saw fire, and, unable to get back, had had to watch their own places go up in smoke. Theirs was the greater loss, for they had worked for two years now at their homesteads. One of these neighbors kept watch with Steve’s loaded gun while Juan and Steven helped the trembling Hope to prepare some food. They covered the two windows with blankets and stuffed the chinks in the door. In the hot, stifling, smoky room, Hope cleaned and bound her father’s leg. The bullet had been probed for and extracted. Bragdon moaned for a drink from the jug which he had secreted; he took his drink and fell asleep. Doren was fed and made to lie down on the last blanket, and then Hope, Steven, and the men made their supper from the beans and tortillas. The moon was sinking behind the mountains when at last Steven peered out. It was at least twelve o’clock. He had missed his rendezvous with Consuelo. CHAPTER VIII FOR HIS TREASURE