He wrestled with the spell as if it were a physical foe. Reason
and intelligence had their voices in his mind; but the moment was
not one wherein these things could wholly control. He felt life
strong within his breast, yet there, a step away, was death,
yawning, glaring, smoky, red. It was a moment--an hour for a
savage, born, bred, developed in this scarred and blasted place
of jagged depths and red distances and silences never meant
to be broken. Since Gale was not a savage he fought that call
of the red gods which sent him back down the long ages toward
his primitive day. His mind combated his sense of sight and the
hearing that seemed useless; and his mind did not win all the
victory. Something fatal was here, hanging in the balance, as the
red haze hung along the vast walls of that crater of hell.
Suddenly harsh, prolonged yells brought him to his feet, and the
unrealities vanished. Far down the trails where the crater rims
closed in the deep fissure he saw moving forms. They were three in
number. Two of them ran nimbly across the lava bridge. The third
staggered far behind. It was Ladd. He appeared hard hit. He
dragged at the heavy rifle which he seemed unable to raise. The
yells came from him. He was calling the Yaqui.
Gale's heart stood still momentarily. Here, then, was the
catastrophe! He hardly dared sweep that fissure with his glass.
The two fleeing figures halted--turned to fire at Ladd. Gale
recognized the foremost one--small, compact, gaudy.
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