der him lust and passion and murder, as in other days he
had seen them, and between him and desire there was neither law nor
conscience to bar the way, and his dream--a last great fight--was here
to fill the final unwritten page of a life's drama that was almost
closed. And what a fight, if he could make that carpet of soft, white
sand unheard and unseen. Six to one! Six men with guns at their sides
and rifles in their hands. What a glorious end it would be, for a
woman--and Alan Holt!

He blessed the firing up the kloof which kept the men's faces turned
that way; he thanked God for the sound of combat, which made the
scraping of rock and the rattle of stones under his feet unheard. He was
almost down when a larger rock broke loose, and fell to the ledge. Two
of the men turned, but in that same instant came a more thrilling
interruption. A cry, a shrill scream, a woman's voice filled with
madness and despair, came from the depth of the cavern, and the five men
stared in the direction of its agony. Close upon the cries came Mary
Standish, with Graham behind her, reaching out his hands for her. The
girl's hair was flying, her face the color of the white sand, and
Graham's eyes were the eyes of a demon forgetful of all else but her. He
caught her. The slim body crumpled in his arms again while pitifully
weak hands beat futilely in his face.

And then came a cry such as no man had ever heard in Ghost Kloof before.

It was Stampede Smith. A sheer twenty feet he had leaped to the carpet
of sand, and as he jumped his hands whipped out his two guns, and
scarcely had his feet touched the floor of the soft pocket in the ledge
when death crashed from them swift as lightning flashes, and three of
the five were tottering or falling before the other two could draw or
swing a rifle. Only one of them had fired a shot. The other went down as
if his legs had been knocked from under him by a club, and the one who
fired bent forward then, as if making a bow to death, and pitched on
his face.

And then Stampede Smith whirled upon John Graham.

During these few swift seconds Graham had stood stunned, with the girl
crushed against his breast. He was behind her, sheltered by her body,
her head protecting his heart, and as Stampede turned he was drawing a
gun, his dark face blazing with the fiendish knowledge that the other
could not shoot without killing the girl. The horror of the situation
gripped Stampede. He saw Graham's pistol rise s