Both hurried to the single window. Where the wagon trail skirted the base of the rocky hillside, a half dozen crouching figures came into view. Armed with rifles and pistols, they were creeping cautiously up the incline. A single shot from above caused some of the group to drop flat. Others dodged into the brush. There was a movement among the lengthening shadows at the left. "What goes on!" demanded Sally. "Gang war?" "They're not shooting at each other," Marlin asserted, after watching the cautious maneuvers of the two groups. "Looks as if they were closing in on some one. Sheriff's posse, I guess." Another shot directed their eyes to the rock behind which the fugitive or fugitives must be hiding. From its concealment, a figure edged into view. There appeared to be only one. "Poor devil--sure is done for," commented Marlin. "Must be public enemy number one, to judge by the number in the posse. Look! There he goes!" Crouching close to the ground, the overalled figure dodged from cover to cover, each fleeting appearance bringing a fusillade of shots from the converging squads. He replied with a couple of bursts from his own weapon, then fell on his stomach behind a rock and commenced reloading. Perhaps it was because their experience had prejudiced them against all forces of law; perhaps it was merely sympathy with the underdog, that impelled Sally and Marlin to pull mentally for the fugitive. "That's no protection!" breathed Sally. "They'll have him between a crossfire. Why doesn't he make a dash for it?" "Where'll he dash?" queried Marlin. For answer, Sally opened the door a crack and called sharply, "Here!" The outlaw glanced desperately over his shoulder, then, crouching and dodging, he made a zig-zag retreat up the hill. A rattle of shots accompanied this daring retreat. It was incredible that such an open target could escape the murderous bullets coming from all directions. A final spurt and the fugitive fell sprawling across the threshold. Marlin dragged him inside as Sally slammed and bolted the door. Blood spurted from a neck wound and the outlaw clutched at his side, groaning. "Done for--Thanks!" he gasped. "You better--" The effort at speech ended in a gasp. The sound of running boots on the gravel, followed by a peremptory knock, indicated the arrival of the posse. "Open up! This is the law!" an imperative voice called. Sally tugged at the wounded man. "Stall 'em off!" she whispered tensely. "I'll get him back inside." With a hopeless gesture, Marlin tried to restrain her. "We'll only get ourselves in dutch--We can't hope to--" Her look of scorn checked the protest. Shrugging, he lifted the desperately wounded man and supported him into the tunnel. Once erect, the outlaw seemed able to stumble along by leaning heavily on the bare-footed girl. Marlin closed the door and gave attention to the increasing demands from out in front. He unlatched the swinging window. "What's up?" he demanded.