yss, his feet feeling
for the support beyond; and several times he paused to assist the
shorter-legged marshal down to a lower level. Their progress was that
of the snail, yet every inch of the way they played with death.

Now and then voices shouted out of the gloom beneath them, and they
hung motionless to listen. The speech was Spanish garnished with
oaths, its meaning not altogether clear. They could distinguish
Mendez's harsh croak easily among the others.

"What's he saying, Moore?" whispered Westcott to the black shape just
below.

"Something 'bout the log. I don't just make it, but I reckon they aim
now to batter in the winder."

"Well, go on," passed down the marshal gruffly. "What in Sam Hill are
yer holdin' us up yere for? I ain't got more'n two inches ter stand
on."

Fifty feet below, just as Moore rounded the dead cedar, the guns began
again, the spits of red flame lighting up the outlines of the cabin,
and the dark figures of men. It was as though they looked down into
the pit, watching the brewing of some sport of demons--the movements
below them weird, grotesque--rendered horrible by those sudden glares
of light. This firing was all from without, and was unanswered; no
boom of shotgun replied, no muffled crack of revolver. Yet it must
have been for a purpose, for the men crouching against the cliff, their
faces showing ghastly in the flashes of powder, were able to perceive a
massing of figures below. Then the shots ceased, and the butt of the
great log crashed against something with the force of a catapult, and a
yell rolled up through the night.

At last Moore stopped, and waited until Westcott was near enough for
him to whisper in the other's ear.

"There's a drop yere, 'bout ten er twelve feet, I reckon; an' then just
a slope to ther bottom. Don't make no more noise then yer have to, an'
give me a chance ter git out of ther way afore yer let go."

Westcott passed the word back across his shoulder to Brennan who was
panting heavily, and, watched, as best he could on hands and knees,
while Moore lowered himself at arm's length over the narrow rock ledge.
The boy loosened his grip, but landed almost noiselessly. Westcott,
peering over, could see nothing; there was beneath only impenetrable
blackness. Silently he also dropped and his feet struck earth, sloping
rapidly downward. Hardly had he advanced a yard, when the little
marshal struck the dirt, with a force that made him grunt