Gale’s heart stood still momentarily.  Here, then, was the catastrophe!  He hardly dared sweep that fissure with his glass.  The two fleeing figures halted—­turned to fire at Ladd.  Gale recognized the foremost one—­small, compact, gaudy.  Rojas!  The bandit’s arm was outstretched.  Puffs of white smoke rose, and shots rapped out.  When Ladd went down Rojas threw his gun aside and with a wild yell bounded over the lava.  His companion followed.

A tide of passion, first hot as fire, then cold as ice, rushed over Gale when he saw Rojas take the trail toward Mercedes’s hiding-place.  The little bandit appeared to have the sure-footedness of a mountain sheep.  The Mexican following was not so sure or fast.  He turned back.  Gale heard the trenchant bark of the .405.  Ladd was kneeling.  He shot again—­again.  The retreating bandit seemed to run full into an invisible obstacle, then fell lax, inert, lifeless.  Rojas sped on unmindful of the spurts of dust about him.  Yaqui, high above Ladd, was also firing at the bandit.  Then both rifles were emptied.  Rojas turned at a high break in the trail.  He shook a defiant hand, and his exulting yell pealed faintly to Gale’s ears.  About him there was something desperate, magnificent.  Then he clambered down the trail.

Ladd dropped the .405, and rising, gun in hand, he staggered toward the bridge of lava.  Before he had crossed it Yaqui came bounding down the slope, and in one splendid leap he cleared the fissure.  He ran beyond the trail and disappeared on the lava above.  Rojas had not seen this sudden, darting move of the Indian.

Gale felt himself bitterly powerless to aid in that pursuit.  He could only watch.  He wondered, fearfully, what had become of Lash.  Presently, when Rojas came out of the cracks and ruts of lava there might be a chance of disabling him by a long shot.  His progress was now slow.  But he was making straight for Mercedes’s hiding-place.  What was it leading him there—­an eagle eye, or hate, or instinct?  Why did he go on when there could be no turning back for him on that trail?  Ladd was slow, heavy, staggering on the trail; but he was relentless.  Only death could stop the ranger now.  Surely Rojas must have known that when he chose the trail.  From time to time Gale caught glimpses of Yaqui’s dark figure stealing along the higher rim of the crater.  He was making for a point above the bandit.

Moments—­endless moments dragged by.  The lowering sun colored only the upper half of the crater walls.  Far down the depths were murky blue.  Again Gale felt the insupportable silence.  The red haze became a transparent veil before his eyes.  Sinister, evil, brooding, waiting, seemed that yawning abyss.  Ladd staggered along the trail, at times he crawled.  The Yaqui gained; he might have had wings; he leaped from jagged crust to jagged crust; his sure-footedness was a wonderful thing.