help when he failed, for it was a strong hand-made door of vertical planks, hung on heavy strap hinges.
The boss of the outfit told him to push it through the broken window and throw a match on it. One of them rode up and kicked in the sash.
The man who had carried the hay was striking a match when Rawlins fired. The fellow turned from the window, the burning match in his fingers, running toward his horse as if he had snatched a brand from the fire and rushed out in the night to light his way. He ran with such desperate eagerness, hand holding the blazing match extended as if he hurried to save the precious flame, that Rawlins believed he had missed.
The others evidently shared this belief. After they had made a quick scurry to get behind the stacks, Rawlins heard them laughing at their friend's ridiculous efforts to save the match. As the man made a sweeping reach for his saddle, he fell.
The others rode out and looked at him, where he lay stretched full-length and still, his face to the ground. None of them dismounted to inquire into his condition, all hurrying off behind the house as if to consult over this unexpected, and perhaps unprecedented, resistance from the homesteader. Fearing they would set fire to the house from that side, Rawlins left his hole again, edging around the fringe of his little clearing, keeping out of sight as well as he could behind the sparse bushes.
Two were riding out from behind the house to draw a long encircling movement and get back where they supposed him to be; the third was whittling a shingle torn from the eaves, preparing to make a fire in the
