and
nearer, and ten hooked fingers blurred her vision. But the arms shot
upward, the fingers stiffened, and a body splashed across the doorway at
her feet with the sound of a board dropped on water.

"Ai, poor man!"

She was on her knees, bending over him. But a second of the vermin
lurched against her, and he too lay still. A pistol report from the
cliff was simultaneous with each man's fall. Both were dead. A third
sank in the trail with a shattered hip, and another behind knew the
agony of a broken leg. The marksman's mercy was evidently tempered
according to distance. For, having the matter now under control, he
nonchalantly cracked only shin bones. Fra Diavolo from his shelter
roared commands and curses, but not another imp would show himself.
Crouched jealously, they chose rather to besiege their lone enemy on the
cliff.

"Must have howitzers," muttered Driscoll. The soft lead, bigger than
marbles, went "Splut! Splut!" against the rock on all sides of him,
flattening with the windy puff of mud on a wall. But he was well
intrenched, and as the guerrillas were also, he lighted his pipe and
smoked reflectively. But after awhile he perceived a slight movement,
supplemented by a carabine. One of the besiegers was working from
boulder to boulder, parallel with the trail. He did it with infinite
craft. At first the fellow crawled; then, when out of pistol range, he
got to his feet and ran. Still running, he crossed the trail at a safe
distance beyond the hut, and began working back again, this time along
the cliff, and toward Driscoll. When about a hundred yards away, he
disappeared; which is to say, he lowered himself into a little ravine
that thousands of rainy seasons had worn through from the foothills. But
almost at once his head and shoulders rose from the nearer bank, and
Driscoll promptly fired. The shot fell short. A pistol would not carry
so far; which was a tremendously important little fact, since the other
fellow was aiming a rifle. The bullet from that rifle neatly clipped a
prickly pear over Driscoll's head. The strategist certainly knew his
business. There was a familiar shimmer of silver about his high peaked
hat. Yes surely, he was Don Tiburcio, the loyal Imperialist of the
baleful eye. No doubt the malignant twinkle gleamed in that eye now,
even as the blackmailer bit a cartridge for the next shot. A victim who
had only pistols, and at rifle range, and with not a pebble for shelter
from the flank b