Thorne was either dead or unconscious, and Gale, with a contracting throat and numb heart, decided for the former.  Not so Ladd, who probed the bloody gash on Thorne’s temple, and then felt his breast.

“He’s alive an’ not bad hurt.  That bullet hit him glancin’.  Shore them steel bullets are some lucky for us.  Dick, you needn’t look so glum.  I tell you he ain’t bad hurt.  I felt his skull with my finger.  There’s no hole in it.  Wash him off an’ tie—­ Wow! did you get the wind of that one?  An’ mebbe it didn’t sing off the lava!...  Dick, look after Thorne now while I—­”

The completion of his speech was the stirring ring of the .405, and then he uttered a laugh that was unpleasant.

“Shore, Greaser, there’s a man’s size bullet for you.  No slim, sharp-pointed, steel-jacket nail!  I’m takin’ it on me to believe you’re appreciatin’ of the .405, seein’ as you don’t make no fuss.”

It was indeed a joy to Gale to find that Thorne had not received a wound necessarily fatal, though it was serious enough.  Gale bathed and bound it, and laid the cavalryman against the slant of the bank, his head high to lessen the probability of bleeding.

As Gale straightened up Ladd muttered low and deep, and swung the heavy rifle around to the left.  Far along the slope a figure moved.  Ladd began to work the lever of the Winchester and to shoot.  At every shot the heavy firearm sprang up, and the recoil made Ladd’s shoulder give back.  Gale saw the bullets strike the lava behind, beside, before the fleeing Mexican, sending up dull puffs of dust.  On the sixth shot he plunged down out of sight, either hit or frightened into seeking cover.

“Dick, mebbe there’s one or two left above; but we needn’t figure much on it,” said Ladd, as, loading the rifle, he jerked his fingers quickly from the hot breech.  “Listen!  Jim an’ Yaqui are hittin’ it up lively down below.  I’ll sneak down there.  You stay here an’ keep about half an eye peeled up yonder, an’ keep the rest my way.”

Ladd crossed the hole, climbed down into the deep crack where Thorne had fallen, and then went stooping along with only his head above the level.  Presently he disappeared.  Gale, having little to fear from the high ridge, directed most of his attention toward the point beyond which Ladd had gone.  The firing had become desultory, and the light carbine shots outnumbered the sharp rifle shots five to one.  Gale made a note of the fact that for some little time he had not heard the unmistakable report of Jim Lash’s automatic.  Then ensued a long interval in which the desert silence seemed to recover its grip.  The .405 ripped it asunder—­spang—­spang —­spang.  Gale fancied he heard yells.  There were a few pattering shots still farther down the trail.  Gale had an uneasy conviction that Rojas and some of his band might go straight to the waterhole.  It would be hard to dislodge even a few men from that retreat.