A minute—­two passed, every nerve on edge; then a second flying form, almost a blur in the gathering gloom, shot across the narrow opening.  The shotgun spoke, and the wildly leaping figure seemed to crumble to the floor—­its lower half had reached shelter, but head and shoulders lay exposed, revealing grey hair and a white moustache.  Cavendish sprang erect, all caution forgotten.

“It’s Mendez,” he cried.  “I got the arch-fiend of them——­”

A rifle cracked and he went plunging back, his body striking the girl, and crushing her to the floor beside him.  There was no cry, no groan of agony, yet he lay there motionless.  She crept across and bent over him, almost dumb with fear.

“You—­you are shot?” she made herself speak.

“Yes; they’ve got me,” the utterance of the words a struggle.  “It’s here in the chest; I—­I don’t know how bad; perhaps if you tear open my shirt, you—­you might stop the blood.”

She could see nothing, not even the man’s face, yet her fingers rent the shirt asunder and searched for the wound.  It was not bleeding greatly, and she had no water, but not knowing what else to do, she tore a strip from her skirt and bound it hastily.  He never moved, or spoke, and she bent her head closer.  The wounded man had lost consciousness.

Alone, in the dark, she crept back on her knees to her place behind the barricade.  Her hand touched the empty gun he had dropped, and she reloaded it slowly, only half comprehending its mechanism.  The revolver, every chamber filled, rested on the upturned edge of the bed; her lips were firmly pressed together.  Quietly she pushed forward the barrel of the shotgun, and waited.

CHAPTER XXIX:  A NEEDLE IN A HAYSTACK

The little marshal of Haskell had the reputation of being as quick of wit as of trigger finger.  Startled as he was by that sudden apparition appearing before them in the dark road, and at being addressed by a woman’s voice, the mention of the name Cassady gave him an instant clue.  There was but one Cassady in camp, and that individual’s reputation was scarcely of a kind to recommend him in the eyes of the law.  If any woman sought that fellow in this out-of-the-way spot, it was surely for no good purpose.  Brennan caught his breath, these thoughts flashing through his brain.  He leaned forward over his saddle horn, lowering his voice confidentially, and managing to achieve a highly meritorious brogue.

“Sure, Oi’m Cassady,” he admitted grouchily.  “How iver come yer ter guess thot?”

“I was sent here to meet you,” she explained hurriedly, as though eager to have her task done.  “I thought maybe it wasn’t you, with another man along.  Who is he?”

“His noime’s Crowley; just a friend o’ moine; mebbe yer know the lad?”

“No; certainly not.  Does he go along with you?”

“Fer only a bit o’ ther way”; he lowered his voice to even greater intimacy.  “Shure, it’s a parfectly still tongue the b’y has in the cheek o’ him.”