form
stiffening into preparation. For a moment neither could determine the
meaning of the sounds. Then he cocked his gun, the sharp click echoing
almost loudly in the stillness.

"Trying the window this time," he murmured, "Do you hear that? Be
ready."

Nothing happened; even the slight noise in the outer room ceased; there
was not a sound except their own breathing. The two knelt motionless,
peering over the edge of the bed into the dim twilight, seeing nothing,
each with finger on trigger--tense, expectant. Then, without warning,
the flying figure of a man leaped across the doorway into the security
of the opposite wall. It was done so quickly neither fired, but
Cavendish licked his parched lips with a dry tongue.

"I'll get the next one who tries that trick," he muttered, "It will be
easier than partridge shooting."

A minute--two passed, every nerve on edge; then a second flying form,
almost a blur in the gathering gloom, shot across the narrow opening.
The shotgun spoke, and the wildly leaping figure seemed to crumble to
the floor--its lower half had reached shelter, but head and shoulders
lay exposed, revealing grey hair and a white moustache. Cavendish
sprang erect, all caution forgotten.

"It's Mendez," he cried. "I got the arch-fiend of them----"

A rifle cracked and he went plunging back, his body striking the girl,
and crushing her to the floor beside him. There was no cry, no groan
of agony, yet he lay there motionless. She crept across and bent over
him, almost dumb with fear.

"You--you are shot?" she made herself speak.

"Yes; they've got me," the utterance of the words a struggle. "It's
here in the chest; I--I don't know how bad; perhaps if you tear open my
shirt, you--you might stop the blood."

She could see nothing, not even the man's face, yet her fingers rent
the shirt asunder and searched for the wound. It was not bleeding
greatly, and she had no water, but not knowing what else to do, she
tore a strip from her skirt and bound it hastily. He never moved, or
spoke, and she bent her head closer. The wounded man had lost
consciousness.

Alone, in the dark, she crept back on her knees to her place behind the
barricade. Her hand touched the empty gun he had dropped, and she
reloaded it slowly, only half comprehending its mechanism. The
revolver, every chamber filled, rested on the upturned edge of the bed;
her lips were firmly pressed together. Quietly she pushed forward t