The unicorn ripped the sod in deep furrows as it whirled back to Prentiss and the remaining rifleman; not turning in the manner of four-footed beasts of Earth but rearing and spinning on its hind feet. It towered above them as it whirled, the tip of its horn fifteen feet above the ground and its hooves swinging around like great clubs.

Prentiss shot again, his sights on what he hoped would be a vital area, and the rifleman shot an instant later.

The shots went true. The unicorn’s swing brought it on around but it collapsed, falling to the ground with jarring heaviness.

“We got it!” the rifleman said. “We⁠—”

It half scrambled to its feet and made a noise; a call that went out through the night like the blast of a mighty trumpet. Then it dropped back to the ground, to die while its call was still echoing from the nearer hills.

From the east came an answering trumpet blast; a trumpeting that was sounded again from the south and from the north. Then there came a low and muffled drumming, like the pounding of thousands of hooves.

The rifleman’s face was blue-white in the starlight. “The others are coming⁠—we’ll have to run for it!”

He turned, and began to run toward the distant bulk of the stockade.

“No!” Prentiss commanded, quick and harsh. “Not the stockade!”

The rifleman kept running, seeming not to hear him in his panic. Prentiss called to him once more:

“Not the stockade⁠— you’ll lead the unicorns into it! ”

Again the rifleman seemed not to hear him.