cried Gale, in
piercing tones. "Mercedes is safe! Yaqui saved her! Rojas is done
for! Yaqui jumped down the wall and drove the bandit off the ledge.
Cut him loose from the wall, foot by foot, hand by hand! We've won the
fight, Thorne."

For Thorne these were marvelous strength-giving words. The dark horror
left his eyes, and they began to dilate, to shine. He stood up,
dizzily but unaided, and he gazed across the crater. Yaqui had reached
the side of Mercedes, was bending over her. She stirred. Yaqui lifted
her to her feet. She appeared weak, unable to stand alone. But she
faced across the crater and waved her hand. She was unharmed. Thorne
lifted both arms above head, and from his lips issued a cry. It was
neither call nor holloa nor welcome nor answer. Like the Yaqui's, it
could scarcely be named. But it was deep, husky, prolonged, terribly
human in its intensity. It made Gale shudder and made his heart beat
like a trip hammer. Mercedes again waved a white hand. The Yaqui
waved, too, and Gale saw in the action an urgent signal.

Hastily taking up canteen and rifles, Gale put a supporting arm around
Thorne.

"Come, old man. Can you walk? Sure you can walk! Lean on me, and
we'll soon get out of this. Don't look across. Look where you step.
We've not much time before dark. Oh, Thorne, I'm afraid Jim has cashed
in! And the last I saw of Laddy he was badly hurt."

Gale was keyed up to a high pitch of excitement and alertness. He
seemed to be able to do many things. But once off the ragged notched
lava into the trail he had not such difficulty with Thorne, and could
keep his keen gaze shifting everywhere for sight of enemies.

"Listen, Thorne! What's that?" asked Gale, halting as they came to a
place where the trail led down through rough breaks in the lava. The
silence was broken by a strange sound, almost unbelieveable considering
the time and place. A voice was droning: "Turn the lady, turn! Turn
the lady, turn! Alamon left. All swing; turn the lady, turn!"

"Hello, Jim," called Gale, dragging Thorne round the corner of lava.
"Where are you? Oh, you son of a gun! I thought you were dead. Oh,
I'm glad to see you! Jim, are you hurt?"

Jim Lash stood in the trail leaning over the butt of his rifle, which
evidently he was utilizing as a crutch. He was pale but smiling. His
hands were bloody. A scarf had been bound tightly round his left leg
just above the knee. The leg hung limp,