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.