Presently, when Rojas came out of the cracks and ruts
of lava there might be a chance of disabling him by a long shot.
His progress was now slow. But he was making straight for
Mercedes's hiding-place. What was it leading him there--an eagle
eye, or hate, or instinct? Why did he go on when there could be
no turning back for him on that trail? Ladd was slow, heavy,
staggering on the trail; but he was relentless. Only death could
stop the ranger now. Surely Rojas must have known that when
he chose the trail. From time to time Gale caught glimpses of
Yaqui's dark figure stealing along the higher rim of the crater.
He was making for a point above the bandit.
Moments--endless moments dragged by. The lowering sun colored
only the upper half of the crater walls. Far down the depths were
murky blue. Again Gale felt the insupportable silence. The red
haze became a transparent veil before his eyes. Sinister, evil,
brooding, waiting, seemed that yawning abyss. Ladd staggered
along the trail, at times he crawled. The Yaqui gained; he might
have had wings; he leaped from jagged crust to jagged crust;
his sure-footedness was a wonderful thing.
But for Gale the marvel of that endless period of watching was
the purpose of the bandit Rojas. He had now no weapon. Gale's
glass made this fact plain. There was death behind him, death
below him, death before him, and though he could not have known
it, death above him. He never faltered--never made a misstep
upon the narrow, flinty trail.
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