some
three hundred yards distant. Jim came next, well hidden in a crack.
The positions of Thorne and Ladd were most exposed. They kept sharp
lookout over the uneven rampart of their hiding-place.

The sun passed the zenith, began to slope westward, and to grow hotter
as it sloped. The men waited and waited. Gale saw no impatience even
in Thorne. The sultry air seemed to be laden with some burden or
quality that was at once composed of heat, menace, color, and silence.
Even the light glancing up from the lava seemed red and the silence had
substance. Sometimes Gale felt that it was unbearable. Yet he made no
effort to break it.

Suddenly this dead stillness was rent by a shot, clear and stinging,
close at hand. It was from a rifle, not a carbine. With startling
quickness a cry followed--a cry that pierced Gale--it was so thin, so
high-keyed, so different from all other cries. It was the involuntary
human shriek at death.

"Yaqui's called out another pardner," said Jim Lash, laconically.

Carbines began to crack. The reports were quick, light, like sharp
spats without any ring. Gale peered from behind the edge of his
covert. Above the ragged wave of lava floated faint whitish clouds,
all that was visible of smokeless powder. Then Gale made out round
spots, dark against the background of red, and in front of them leaped
out small tongues of fire. Ladd's .405 began to "spang" with its
beautiful sound of power. Thorne was firing, somewhat wildly Gale
thought. Then Jim Lash pushed his Winchester over the rim under a
choya, and between shots Gale could hear him singing: "Turn the lady,
turn--turn the lady, turn!... Alaman left!... Swing your pardners!...
Forward an' back!... Turn the lady, turn!" Gale got into the fight
himself, not so sure that he hit any of the round, bobbing objects he
aimed at, but growing sure of himself as action liberated something
forced and congested within his breast.

Then over the position of the rangers came a hail of steel bullets.
Those that struck the lava hissed away into the crater; those that came
biting through the choyas made a sound which resembled a sharp ripping
of silk. Bits of cactus stung Gale's face, and he dreaded the flying
thorns more than he did the flying bullets.

"Hold on, boys," called Ladd, as he crouched down to reload his rifle.
"Save your shells. The greasers are spreadin' on us, some goin' down
below Yaqui, others movin' up for that high ridge