distended eyes were riveted upon Rojas. He was trying to utter speech
that would not come.

Gale wheeled, rigid now, steeling himself to one last forlorn
hope--that Mercedes could defend herself. She had a gun. He doubted
not at all that she would use it. But, remembering her terror of this
savage, he feared for her.

Rojas reached the level of the ledge. He halted. He crouched. It was
the act of a panther. Manifestly he saw Mercedes within the cave.
Then faint shots patted the air, broke in quick echo. Rojas went down
as if struck a heavy blow. He was hit. But even as Gale yelled in
sheer madness the bandit leaped erect. He seemed too quick, too supple
to be badly wounded. A slight, dark figure flashed out of the cave.
Mercedes! She backed against the wall. Gale saw a puff of
white--heard a report. But the bandit lunged at her. Mercedes ran,
not to try to pass him, but straight for the precipice. Her intention
was plain. But Rojas outstripped her, even as she reached the verge.
Then a piercing scream pealed across the crater--a scream of despair.

Gale closed his eyes. He could not bear to see more.

Thorne echoed Mercedes's scream. Gale looked round just in time to
leap and catch the cavalryman as he staggered, apparently for the steep
slope. And then, as Gale dragged him back, both fell. Gale saved his
friend, but he plunged into a choya. He drew his hands away full of
the great glistening cones of thorns.

"For God's sake, Gale, shoot! Shoot! Kill her! Kill her!...
Can't--you--see--Rojas--"

Thorne fainted.

Gale, stunned for the instant, stood with uplifted hands, and gazed
from Thorne across the crater. Rojas had not killed Mercedes. He was
overpowering her. His actions seemed slow, wearing, purposeful. Hers
were violent. Like a trapped she-wolf, Mercedes was fighting. She
tore, struggled, flung herself.

Rojas's intention was terribly plain.

In agony now, both mental and physical, cold and sick and weak, Gale
gripped his rifle and aimed at the struggling forms on the ledge. He
pulled the trigger. The bullet struck up a cloud of red dust close to
the struggling couple. Again Gale fired, hoping to hit Rojas, praying
to kill Mercedes. The bullet struck high. A third--fourth--fifth time
the Remington spoke--in vain! The rifle fell from Gale's racked hands.

How horribly plain that fiend's intention! Gale tried to close his
eyes, but could not. He prayed wildly for a sudd