The positions of Thorne and Ladd
were most exposed. They kept sharp lookout over the uneven
rampart of their hiding-place.
The sun passed the zenith, began to slope westward, and to grow
hotter as it sloped. The men waited and waited. Gale saw no
impatience even in Thorne. The sultry air seemed to be laden
with some burden or quality that was at once composed of heat,
menace, color, and silence. Even the light glancing up from the
lava seemed red and the silence had substance. Sometimes Gale
felt that it was unbearable. Yet he made no effort to break it.
Suddenly this dead stillness was rent by a shot, clear and stinging,
close at hand. It was from a rifle, not a carbine. With startling
quickness a cry followed--a cry that pierced Gale--it was so thin,
so high-keyed, so different from all other cries. It was the
involuntary human shriek at death.
"Yaqui's called out another pardner," said Jim Lash, laconically.
Carbines began to crack. The reports were quick, light, like sharp
spats without any ring. Gale peered from behind the edge of his
covert. Above the ragged wave of lava floated faint whitish clouds,
all that was visible of smokeless powder. Then Gale made out round
spots, dark against the background of red, and in front of them
leaped out small tongues of fire. Ladd's .405 began to "spang" with
its beautiful sound of power. Thorne was firing, somewhat wildly
Gale thought. Then Jim Lash pushed his Winchester over the rim
under a choya, and between shots Gale could hear him singing:
"Turn the lady, turn--turn the lady, turn!.
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