It was past midnight, and in the great, sprawling adobe ranch house with its dozens of rooms that had belonged to the Dawson family for three generations, only one lamp was burning. The windows of the lighted room had been covered with blankets, and in the room centre, young Don Dawson and his sister were sitting side by side. Don held a shotgun across his lap, and from time to time his eyes darted about the room - and when he spoke it was in a tone barely above a whisper...