A stumble—an almost human groan of agony, and one horse is down, the hot life-blood spurting from his mouth and nostrils. It is that of Ruel. The tall hunter was prepared for this. He felt the noble brute’s sides collapse, and with a nimble spring, alighted softly upon his feet. “Good—hurry up, Ruel,” cried Campbell, who had witnessed the act. “Bet ye—I’ll be thar!” and the hunter bounded forward like a deer. It may seem strange that the Night Hawks take no alarm at this approach, but they did not. The prairie-grass was thick, the turf moist and springy; the burning building roared and crackled loudly, and they were all intent upon watching the doors, knowing that the inmates must soon emerge or else die a horrible death in the flames. They had not long to wait. Those within were not men to die tamely, while a chance remained to deal a blow at their enemy. To stay within was certain death. To come out seemed equally hopeless, yet they chose this alternative. The front door was flung wide and two forms sprung out into the open air, with cocked and leveled rifles. A rattling volley was fired at them, but their movements were so quick, their change of position so abrupt, that most of the missiles went wide of the mark. One fell to his knees—it was Henry Colton. A wild shriek was added to the tumult, and Mary, his wife, who had been forced to remain behind while the men drew the fire of the Night Hawks, sprung out, her little boy clasped to her breast, and flung herself beside the wounded settler. Colton seemed invigorated by her presence and once more sprung erect, his rifle echoing the death-knell of an outlaw. Then a wild cry broke from his lips as he sunk back. He caught sight of the rescuers. A hoarse cheer—a deadly volley—then the young hunters sprung from their trembling animals, and with drawn pistols, rushed to close quarters. But the Night Hawks did not tarry to test their metal. As a band they were annihilated. Two-thirds of their number had fallen, what with the fire of the besieged and this withering volley, discharged as they all rushed forward to complete their murderous work. With cries of terror the survivors turned and fled for their horses, followed by a rapid discharge of pistol-bullets. Jack Colton had escaped the storm of bullets that saluted their bold dash from the blazing building, and recognizing his now deadly enemy, Jasper Morton, the Night-Hawk chief, had fired at him. The outlaw staggered, but did not fall, and he was one of the few that gained their horses. With a curse of rage Colton dashed aside his useless rifle and sprung after Morton. There was reason in his action, for he knew that his life would be in peril as long as the outlaw lived.