Her intention was plain. But Rojas
oustripped her, even as she reached the verge. Then a piercing
scream pealed across the crater--a scream of despair.
Gale closed his eyes. He could not bear to see more.
Thorne echoed Mercedes's scream. Gale looked round just in time
to leap and catch the cavalryman as he staggered, apparently for
the steep slope. And then, as Gale dragged him back, both fell.
Gale saved his friend, but he plunged into a choya. He drew his
hands away full of the great glistening cones of thorns.
"For God's sake, Gale, shoot! Shoot! Kill her! Kill her!...Can't
--you--see-Rojas--"
Thorne fainted.
Gale, stunned for the instant, stood with uplifted hands, and gazed
from Thorne across the crater. Rojas had not killed Mercedes. He
was overpowering her. His actions seemed slow, wearing, purposeful.
Hers were violent. Like a trapped she-wolf, Mercedes was fighting.
She tore, struggled, flung herself.
Rojas's intention was terribly plain.
In agony now, both mental and physical, cold and sick and weak,
Gale gripped his rifle and aimed at the struggling forms on the
ledge. He pulled the trigger. The bullet struck up a cloud of red
dust close to the struggling couple. Again Gale fired, hoping to
hit Rojas, praying to kill Mercedes. The bullet struck high.
A third--fourth--fifth time the Remington spoke--in vain!
The rifle fell from Gale's racked hands.
How horribly plain that fiend's intention! Gale tried to close his
eyes, but could not.
Pages:
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286