Rojas!
The bandit's arm was outstretched. Puffs of white smoke
rose, and shots rapped out. When Ladd went down Rojas
threw his gun aside and with a wild yell bounded over the lava.
His companion followed.
A tide of passion, first hot as fire, then cold as ice, rushed over
Gale when he saw Rojas take the trail toward Mercedes's
hiding-place. The little bandit appeared to have the
sure-footedness of a mountain sheep. The Mexican following
was not so sure or fast. He turned back. Gale heard the trenchant
bark of the .405. Ladd was kneeling. He shot again--again. The
retreating bandit seemed to run full into an invisible obstacle,
then fell lax, inert, lifeless. Rojas sped on unmindful of the
spurts of dust about him. Yaqui, high above Ladd, was also firing
at the bandit. Then both rifles were emptied. Rojas turned at a
high break in the trail. He shook a defiant hand, and his exulting
yell pealed faintly to Gale's ears. About him there was something
desperate, magnificent. Then he clambered down the trail.
Ladd dropped the .405, and rising, gun in hand, he staggered 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.
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