It was dingy dark once she had crossed the threshold, yet enough of
light flickered in through the doorway to enable her to perceive the
few articles of furniture. The room itself was a small one, but
contained a roughly constructed wooden bed, two stools, and a square
table of unplaned boards. A strip of rag carpet covered a portion of
the floor, and there was a sort of cupboard in one corner, the door of
which stood open, revealing a variety of parcels, littering the
shelves. Against the wall in a corner leaned a short-barrelled gun, a
canvas bag draped over its muzzle.
She had no opportunity to observe more. To her ears there came the
sound of a blow in the room she had just left, a groan, the dull thud
of a body striking the floor, accompanied by a Spanish oath, and a
shuffling of feet. She sprang back into the open doorway, startled,
certain only of some catastrophe, her fingers gripping hard on the
revolver.
Cavendish lay writhing on the floor, the chair overturned beside him,
and the Mexican, with one swift leap forward, cleared the body, and
reached the window. Even as she caught this movement, too dazed for
the instant to act, the injured man struggled up on one elbow, and,
with all the force he possessed, hurled the knife straight at the
fleeing figure. It flashed through the air, a savage gleam of steel,
barely missing Mendez's shoulder, and buried itself in a log, quivering
from the force of impact. With a yell of derision, his hands still
bound, the desperate fugitive cast himself head-first through the
opening. Without aim, scarcely aware of what she did, the girl flung
up her weapon and fired. With revolver yet smoking she rushed forward
to look without. Rolling over and over on the ground, his face covered
with blood, Mendez was seeking to round the corner of the cabin, to get
beyond range. Again she pulled the trigger, the powder smoke blowing
back into her face, and blinding her. When she could see once more, he
was gone, but men were leaping out through the door of the bunk-house,
shouting in excitement.
One of these caught sight of her, and fired, the bullet chugging into
the end of a log, so closely it caught a strand of her hair, but,
before another shot could follow, she had seized the shutter, and
closed the opening, driving the latch fast with the revolver butt. She
was cool enough now, every nerve on edge, realising fully the danger of
their position. All the blood of a fighting race surged through her
veins, and she was conscious of no fear, only of a wild exultation, a
strange desire to win. As she turned she faced Cavendish, only vaguely
visible in the twilight caused by the closed window. He was still
seated on the floor, his expression betraying bewilderment.
"Are you hurt?"
"No--not--not much. He knocked all the wind out of me. I--I'm all
right now."
"Get up then! There's fighting enough ahead to make you forget that.
What happened?"
"He--he kicked me, I guess. I--I don't exactly know. I heard you go
past us into that other room, and--and just turned my head to see. The
next I knew I was on the floor, so damned sick--I beg your pardon--I
thought I was going to faint. Did I get him with the knife?"
"No, it's over there, and I am afraid I didn't touch him either; it was
all so sudden I got no aim. Do you hear those voices? There must be a
dozen of the band outside already."
He looked up at her, his glance almost vacant, and she could but
perceive how his chin shook.
"What shall we do?"
"Do!" she gripped his shoulder. "Are you a man and ask that? We will
fight! Did you imagine I would ever surrender myself into the hands of
that devil, after what has happened? I would rather die; yes, I will
die before he ever puts hand on me. And what about you, Mr. Cavendish?
Are you going to lie there moping? Answer me--I thought you were a
man--a gentleman."
The words were like a blow in his face, and under their sting he
staggered to his feet; scarlet blazed in both his cheeks.
"You have no right to say that to me," he said angrily. "I'm not that
kind."
"I know it," she admitted, "but you lose your nerve; this isn't your
game. Well, it isn't mine either, for the matter of that.
Nevertheless it has got to be played, and we're going to play it
together. Those fellows will be at that door presently--just so soon
as Mendez tells them who are inside here. They'll try us once, and, if
we can beat them back, that will give us a breathing spell."
She paused, glancing swiftly about, listening to the increasing hubbub
without.
"There is no other way they can break in except through this door,
unless, perhaps, they smash that shutter. Two of us ought to hold them
for some time."
"But we have only one weapon--that knife is no use."
"There is a sawed-off shotgun back yonder; go get it, and hunt for some
cartridges. They may be in the cupboard--quick now; that's Mendez's
voice, and he'll be savage."
There was a shouting of commands without in Spanish, punctuated by
oaths, the meaning of which the girl alone understood. She leaned
forward, her eyes on the door, the cocked revolver held ready. She had
meant what she said to Cavendish; to her mind death was far preferable
to any surrender to that infuriated Mexican; she expected death, but
one hope yet buoyed her up--Westcott. Odd that any memory of him
should have come to her at that moment--yet it did; as though he spoke,
and bade her believe in his coming. She had thought of him before,
often in the past two days, but now he was real, tangible; she could
almost feel the strong grip of his hand, and hear the sound of his
voice. It was exactly as though the man called to her, and she
responded. A dream, or what, it brought her courage, hope.
He would come; she had faith in that--and he would find she had fought
to the end, even if he came too late. She buried her face in her
hands, stifling a sob that shook her body, yet when she lifted the head
again, there was no glimmer of tears in her eyes, and her cheeks were
crimson. She waited motionless, scarcely seeming to breathe--the
statue of a woman at bay.
All this was but for a moment, a moment of swift thought, of equally
swift decision. The next Cavendish stood beside her, grasping the
shotgun, no longer a victim of weakness, his eyes meeting hers eagerly.
"I could only find twelve cartridges," he exclaimed, "but I know how to
use those."
He took a step forward, and held out his hand.
"Forgive me, Miss Donovan," he pleaded. "Really I do not know what
makes me like that, but you would make a man out of anybody."
Her firm, slim fingers met his eagerly, her eyes instantly glowing in
appreciation.
"Of course I forgive you," she exclaimed. "Your fear is no greater
than my own. I am a woman, and dread this sort of thing. All that
gives me courage is the knowledge that death is preferable to
dishonour," her voice lost its firmness, "and--and my faith in a man."
"You mean in possible rescue?"
Her eyes lifted to his face.
"Yes, Mr. Cavendish. It may prove all imagination, yet there is one--a
real man, I am sure--who must know of my plight before this. If he
does, and lives, he will come to me. If we can only defend ourselves
long enough there will be rescue."
He hesitated, yet something told him this was no time to fear asking
all.
"Surely you are not married? Of course not; then he----"
"Is merely a friend; no, there has been no other word spoken between
us, yet," her voice trembling slightly, "there are secrets a woman
knows instinctively without speech. I know this man cares--enough to
come. Isn't that strange, Mr. Cavendish, when we have only met three
times?"
"No," he said gallantly, "not to any one who has known you. I believe
you might even trust me. Where is this man?"
"In Haskell; but please do not ask any more--there! They are coming."
A blow struck the outer door, and was repeated, evidently dealt by the
butt of a gun; then the two, standing silent and almost breathless
within, heard Mendez's voice. There was no mistaking his slow,
carefully chosen English.
"_Senorita_, and you also, Señor Cavendish," he called his words
intended to be conciliatory. "It is of no use that you resist. We are
many and armed. If you surrender, and not fight, I pledge you
protection."
The girl glanced at Cavendish.
"You answer him."
He stepped closer to the door.
"Protection from whom?" he asked briefly.
"From my men; I am Pasqual Mendez."
"But you propose holding us prisoners? You intend delivering us up to
the man Lacy as soon as he arrives?"
"Yes," he admitted, "but I hold no animosity--none. The _señorita_
need not fear. I will intercede for you both with the Senor Lacy, and
he will listen to what I say. You may trust me, if you unbar the door."
"And if we refuse?"
"We shall break in, and there will be no promise. I ask you now for
the last time."
Cavendish turned his head slightly to regard his companion.
"What shall I say?" he whispered.
"The man lies; he will keep no promise once we are in his power.
Besides they have not yet found Cateras. When they do there will be no
thought of mercy."
"Then we fight it out?"
"I shall; I will never give myself into the hands of that creature."
"Señor," and Cavendish stepped aside to the protection of the logs, "we
will not surrender. That is our answer."
"Fools!" he called back, his voice rising harsh above the growling of
others. "We will show you. Silva, Felipe, quick now; do what I told
you. We will teach these Americano dogs a lesson. No, stand back!
Wait until I speak the word."'
A faint glimmer of light through one of the log crevices caught
Cavendish's attention, and he bent down, his eye to the crack, one hand
grasping the barrel of his gun. Stella watched him motionless and
silent, her face again pale from strain. A moment he stared out,
without speaking, the only noise the movement of men beyond the log
walls, and the occasional sound of a voice in Spanish.
"I can count about a dozen out there," he said finally, his words
barely audible, and his eye still at the slight opening. "All Mexican
except two--they look American. Most of them are armed. You must have
pricked Mendez, for he has one arm in a sling, and the cloth shows
bloody. Ah! Wait! The fellows have searched the cells and discovered
Cateras. Do you hear that yell? It will be a fight to a finish now.
Here come two men with a log--that's their game then; they mean to
smash in the door."
He straightened up, casting a swift glance about the apartment. All
hesitancy, doubt, had left him, now that the supreme test had come. He
was again capable of thinking clearly, and acting.
"Miss Donovan," he burst out, "we can never hope to hold back those men
here--in this room. There must be fifteen of them, and our ammunition
is scanty. We shall be in bright light as soon as the door is battered
down, and then, if they crush in the window also, we shall surely be
attacked from two sides."
"What will be better?" she asked.
"The back room; it is dark, with no windows, and there are strips
nailed between the logs. We can force that heavy wooden bed across the
door, and hide behind it. We ought to hold them there as long as our
cartridges last, unless they set the cabin afire. Good God! They have
begun already. Three more blows like that and the door goes down.
Come; it's our only chance."
It was the work of a moment; it had to be. The inner room was so dark
they had to feel their way about blindly, yet those splintering crashes
on the outer door, interspersed by the shouts of the men, spurred both
to hurried effort. Nor was there much to be done. The heavy bed was
thrown upon its side, and hauled and pushed forward until it rested
against the door jambs, the mattress and blankets so caught and held as
to form protection against bullets. Breathless the two sank to their
knees in the darkness behind, their eyes on the brightening daylight of
the room beyond. Already a hole had been stove through the upper panel
of the door, the surrounding wood splintered. Some one fired once
through the jagged opening, and an exultant yell followed from without.
"No firing!" the voice was Mendez's rising sharply above the other
sounds. "I don't want the girl shot, you fools. Take that other log
around to the window. They'll surrender fast enough once we're inside.
Now, another one. Here, five of you swing her!"
Stella touched Cavendish's sleeve.
"Show me how to load, please," she urged feverishly. "I've fired two
shots already."
His gun rested across the rude barricade, and he left it there, seizing
the revolver from her hand.
"You have never handled one before?"
"No; not like this. Oh, I see; you press that spring. I can do that.
You have the belt with the revolver cartridges--fasten it about my
waist; quick! The door is almost down."
"Rest your barrel on the edge of the bed," he muttered, gripping the
shotgun again, "and aim at that door. The instant you see one of those
devils, give it to him."
With a crash the remaining wood gave way, the end of the log, used as a
battering ram, projecting into the room. Over the shattered door, now
held only by one bent hinge, a half dozen forms swarmed inward, the
quick rush blocking their passage.
Cavendish pulled trigger, the deep boom of his shotgun echoed instantly
by the sharper report of the girl's revolver. She fired twice before
the swirling smoke obstructed the view, conscious only that one man had
leaped straight into the air, and another had sprawled forward on hands
and knees. Cavendish pushed home a fresh cartridge, and the smoke
cloud lifted just enough to permit them to perceive the farther
doorway. A Mexican lay curled up in the centre of the floor, his gun a
dozen feet away; another hung dangling across an over-turned stool, but
the opening was vacant. Just outside, a fellow, wounded, was dragging
himself out of range.
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Cavendish, excitedly. "Every shot counted.
Here, load up quick. They'll try the window next. Get down!"
The warning was not an instant too soon, the hasty volley largely
thudding harmlessly into the thick mattress, although a bullet or two
sang past and found billets in the logs behind. Cavendish returned the
fire, shooting blindly into the smoke, but the girl only lifted her
head, staring intently into the smother, until the cloud floated away
through the door. The attackers had again vanished, all semblance of
them, except those two motionless bodies.
She had not before been conscious of any feeling; all she had done had
been automatic, as though under compulsion; but now she felt strangely
sick, and faint. An unutterable horror seized her and her hands
gripped the edge of the bed to keep her erect. She could seem to see
nothing but the ghastly face of that dead man hanging over the stool,
and she closed her eyes. Yet this reaction was only momentary. She
had fired in defence; in a struggle for the preservation of life and
honour. Under spur of this thought she once more gained control.
But how still it was! Even the sound of voices had ceased; and out
through the open door there was no sign of movement. The light seemed
dimmer, also, as though the sun had sunk below the opposite cliffs, and
night was slowly descending upon the valley. What could be happening
out there? Were those men planning some new attempt? Or had they
decided it was better to wait for a larger force? The silence and
uncertainty were harder to combat than the violence of assault; she
struggled to refrain from screaming. Cavendish never moved, his gun
flung forward across the improvised barricade, the very grip of his
hand proving the intensity of nervous strain. Something caused him to
glance toward her.
"Looks as though they had enough of it," he said grimly, "and have
decided to starve us out."
"Oh, do you think so? I heard a noise then."
He heard it also, his glance returning instantly to the front, his form
stiffening into preparation. For a moment neither could determine the
meaning of the sounds. Then he cocked his gun, the sharp click echoing
almost loudly in the stillness.
"Trying the window this time," he murmured, "Do you hear that? Be
ready."
Nothing happened; even the slight noise in the outer room ceased; there
was not a sound except their own breathing. The two knelt motionless,
peering over the edge of the bed into the dim twilight, seeing nothing,
each with finger on trigger--tense, expectant. Then, without warning,
the flying figure of a man leaped across the doorway into the security
of the opposite wall. It was done so quickly neither fired, but
Cavendish licked his parched lips with a dry tongue.
"I'll get the next one who tries that trick," he muttered, "It will be
easier than partridge shooting."
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.