aggered toward the
bridge of lava. Before he had crossed it Yaqui came bounding down the
slope, and in one splendid leap he cleared the fissure. He ran beyond
the trail and disappeared on the lava above. Rojas had not seen this
sudden, darting move of the Indian.

Gale felt himself bitterly powerless to aid in that pursuit. He could
only watch. He wondered, fearfully, what had become of Lash.
Presently, when Rojas came out of the cracks and ruts of lava there
might be a chance of disabling him by a long shot. His progress was now
slow. But he was making straight for Mercedes's hiding-place. What
was it leading him there--an eagle eye, or hate, or instinct? Why did
he go on when there could be no turning back for him on that trail?
Ladd was slow, heavy, staggering on the trail; but he was relentless.
Only death could stop the ranger now. Surely Rojas must have known
that when he chose the trail. From time to time Gale caught glimpses
of Yaqui's dark figure stealing along the higher rim of the crater. He
was making for a point above the bandit.

Moments--endless moments dragged by. The lowering sun colored only the
upper half of the crater walls. Far down the depths were murky blue.
Again Gale felt the insupportable silence. The red haze became a
transparent veil before his eyes. Sinister, evil, brooding, waiting,
seemed that yawning abyss. Ladd staggered along the trail, at times he
crawled. The Yaqui gained; he might have had wings; he leaped from
jagged crust to jagged crust; his sure-footedness was a wonderful thing.

But for Gale the marvel of that endless period of watching was the
purpose of the bandit Rojas. He had now no weapon. Gale's glass made
this fact plain. There was death behind him, death below him, death
before him, and though he could not have known it, death above him. He
never faltered--never made a misstep upon the narrow, flinty trail.
When he reached the lower end of the level ledge Gale's poignant doubt
became a certainty. Rojas had seen Mercedes. It was incredible, yet
Gale believed it. Then, his heart clamped as in an icy vise, Gale
threw forward the Remington, and sinking on one knee, began to shoot.
He emptied the magazine. Puffs of dust near Rojas did not even make
him turn.

As Gale began to reload he was horror-stricken by a low cry from
Thorne. The cavalryman had recovered consciousness. He was half
raised, pointing with shaking hand at the opposite ledge. His