After a few moments the guide once more removed the bar, first having
drawn his revolver in case of sudden surprise. Then he cautiously
opened the door an inch or so.
At first nothing happened. The moonlit landscape lay as silent and
peaceful as if there were not a human being on the desert.
There were six distinct flashes all at once and a rain of lead
showered into the door.
Kris Kringle took a pot shot at one of the flashes, then slammed the
door shut and barred it.
"Well; I hope that would get you," he muttered.
Hastily retracing his steps he called the party up to the second
cellar.
"Did you fetch the sacks?" called Mr. Marquand.
"No, but I've fetched trouble. It's coming in sackfuls."
"What do you mean?"
"We're besieged."
"Besieged?" wondered the Professor.
"Yes; there's a crowd outside, and they've been trying to shoot me up.
Must be some of your friends, Mr. Marquand."
"Lasar and Comstock? The scoundrels!" growled Mr. Marquand. "But we'll
make short work of them."
"Not so easy as you think There are more than two out there-- there's
a crowd and they've got rifles. Our rifles are over in the camp. I've
got a six-shooter and so have you, but what do they amount to against
half a dozen rifles?"
"I'll talk to them, if I can get any place to make them hear,"
announced Mr. Marquand, starting up the stairs.
"I reckon there's a window on the second floor, but you'd better be
careful that you don't get winged," warned the guide.
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