“It would take more than one to do that job.  Maybe we’ll find out now—­he’s pounding with a revolver butt on the front door.”

They listened breathlessly, hanging recklessly over the rim of the chasm, and staring at that strange scene below, but the man’s words only reached them broken and detached.  They got enough, however, to realise that he demanded the unbarring of the door, and that he both threatened and promised protection to whoever was within.  It was the language he employed that aroused Westcott.

“Did you hear that?” he asked shortly.  “The man spoke English.  Whoever’s in there doesn’t understand Spanish.  Were any Americans down there when you left, Moore?”

“Joe Sikes, and a fellow they call ‘Shorty,’ but they’re both outside; that was Joe who bound up ol’ Mendez’s arm, an’ Shorty was helpin’ bring up the log.”

The eyes of Brennan and Westcott met understandingly.

“Yer don’t suppose that girl——­”

“Aye, but I do,” and Westcott’s voice proved his conviction.  “There’s nothing too nervy for her to tackle if it needed to be done.  But she never could have corralled Mendez alone.”

“Then there must be another along with her—­that fellow yer told me about likely.”

“Fred Cavendish!  By Jove, it would be like him.  Say, boys, I’m going down and take a hand in this game.”

The marshal gripped him.

“Not yet, Jim!  It ain’t dark enough.  Wait a bit more an’ I’m with yer, old man.  It’ll be blacker than hell down there in fifteen minutes, an’ then we’ll have some chance.  They’d pot us now sure afore we got as far as that cedar.  What is the gang up to now, Matt?”

“They’re a goin’ ter bust in the door,” and Moore craned his head farther out over the edge in eagerness to see.  “I reckon they didn’t git no answer that pleased ’em.  See ol’ Mendez hoppin’ about!  Lord! he’s mad ’nough to eat nails.  Thar comes the log—­say, they hit that some thump; thar ain’t no wood that’s goin’ ter stand agin them blows long.  Do yer hear?”

They did; the dull reverberation as the log butt crashed against the closed door was plainly audible.  Once, twice, three times it struck, giving forth at last the sharper crackling of splintered wood.  They could see little now distinctly—­only the dim outlines of the men’s figures, Mendez shouting and gesticulating, the fellows grasping the rough battering-ram, a group of others on either side the door, evidently gathered for a rush the moment the latter gave way.

“My God!” cried Westcott, struggling to restrain himself.  “Suppose I take a crack at them!”

Brennan caught the hand tugging at the half-drawn revolver.

“Are you mad, man?  You couldn’t even hit the house at that distance.  Holy smoke!  There she goes!”