The Mexican, of course, could not hear the words, but he evidently divined what their thoughts must be, for a jeering laugh floated down. The rancher gritted his teeth as he heard it. Moraga held all the cards, and knew it. He had recognized the marshal when he made his dash for the door and was amazed that he should have escaped death in the desert. It was then that he decided upon flight. His taunting tones reached them again:
'El Diablo has more than one home, senor the so clever marshal. We weel take the senorita where you weel never find her.'
'Can't we do nothin'?' Bordene growled.
'We can poke our heads out an' get shot,' Green told him, and then, 'Hell! Look at the cliff above the ledge. Ain't somethin' movin' there?'
At the risk of being bored by a bullet, the rancher wriggled round a bush which obstructed his view. Behind the ledge the crater rim appeared to rise almost perpendicularly and through the sparse growth of cactus, mesquite, and coarse grass he caught a shifting gleam of copper.
'It's Black Feather,' the marshal said. 'I was wonderin' where he'd drifted. Musta knowed this place plenty well an' gone there a-purpose to stop any getaway.'
Eagerly they watched the Indian swing noiselessly down behind the unconscious Mexican. They could see him plainly now. Stripped to the breech-clout he carried only a knife between his teeth, and his bronzed body shone in the rays of the westering sun. Lithe as a mountain lion, he crept nearer and nearer to the ledge and the man standing on it, who had no eyes for anything save those below. With a few yards to go, the redskin slipped and must have made some noise, for the white men saw Moraga whirl round. In a single bound, the Indian landed on the ledge, and the bandit, dropping the girl, raised his pistol. Instead of pulling the trigger, however, he flung the weapon at the intruder's head. Green rapped out an oath.
'Damn the luck. That musta been his last pill he fired at me,' he lamented.
Black Feather dodged the missile and began to creep in on the other, knife in hand, crouching, deliberate, implacable as death itself. Moraga, realizing that he was trapped and that his only hope lay in killing the redskin before the cowpunchers could reach the ledge, drew his own knife, with a muttered malediction. With the knowledge that every moment was vital he stepped towards the Indian. Only a couple of yards separated them when Moraga's right hand went up as though preparing to stab, and then--he threw the weapon. Against a white the ruse would have succeeded, but the red man is the only equal to the yellow in the use of cold steel, and Black Feather was not asleep. There was no time to dodge, and with a sudden upward thrust of his own blade he swept the oncoming missile aside, the force of the contact shivering both blades.
Dropping the useless handle, the Indian resumed his slow, relentless advance. But the bandit dared not wait; one desperate chance had failed; he must try again. Gathering himself for the effort, he rushed in, hoping by the suddenness of the onslaught to hurl his foe from the ledge. But the claw-like brown fingers gripped like steel, and powerful as was his short, stocky form, Moraga found himself swung round with his back to the abyss. Savagely he struck at the fierce bronze mask with its bared teeth, and triumphant flaming eyes which bored into his own. Inch by inch he was forced nearer the edge; desperately he tried to clutch his enemy that both might die, but his fingers could get no purchase on the smooth, pigmented skin. His breath came in gulps, his face grew grey as he realized that the end was near, yet he fought on; he was a strong man and he did not want to die.
'I weel give you gold--much gold,' he gasped.
The Indian's face twisted into a hateful grin. 'Yellow dog's heart turn to water, huh?' he sneered. 'Die all same.'
Inexorably he forced the now exhausted man back and a cold sweat broke out on Moraga's brow as one of his feet left the ledge. Despairingly he tried to twist, clawing frenziedly, and then the end came. The marshal and his companion, still toiling upwards, saw the bandit topple over the brink of the precipice and drop like a stone. They watched the body hurtling downwards. It caught on a projecting mass of choya and hung there for a moment, the bright red tunic like a great splash of blood against the frosty, grey-green of the cactus. For a few brief seconds the cruel claws held and tortured the shrieking form, and then Green fired. With a convulsive shudder, the body broke away and vanished.
When at last they reached the ledge Tonia was free of her bonds and Black Feather again an impassive figure of bronze, but he bore himself like a man who has got rid of a burden. It might well be that the slaying of Moraga had wiped away his shame and put him right with himself, his people, and his gods. He would not listen to thanks.
'No good stay here,' he said. 'Some fella get away--bring more.'
'He's dead right,' the marshal said. 'We've done what we came to do, an' the sooner we punch the breeze the healthier it'll be for us; we can't lick all Mexico.'
Led by the Indian, they descended from the crater rim by a longer but easier route, the one he himself had used. As Green had surmised, Black Feather had known that there was a way up and through the rock, and had guessed that if the fight went against him the guerrilla leader would make a bolt for it, leaving his followers to shift for themselves. When they reached the cabin again the fighting was finished. Renton, his left arm in a sling, hailed their appearance with a shout and hurried forward to greet his young mistress.
'Shore am glad to see yu again, Miss Tonia,' he said, and to the marshal, 'Where'd yu find her? We've looked all over.'
Green gave a brief account of what had happened; the foreman looked wonderingly at the Indian for a moment and then stepped up to him.
'If yu ever want anythin', any time, come to the Double S an' yu get it,' he said. 'Shake.'
The red man took the proffered hand. 'Black Feather a chief, yellow dog have him whipped,' he said, as though that explained all, and, from his point of view, it did.
'Well, I reckon yu've done squared the 'count,' Renton replied, and turned to the marshal. 'We've cleaned up here pretty complete, but a few got clear, an' I've a hunch we oughta be on our way.'
'The Indian was saying the same. What's wrong with yore arm?'
'Fella tried to hide a knife in me an' got my wing. 'Bout half a dozen of us is damaged, nothin' serious. Soon as we've fed we better point for the hosses, an' go back the way we come, huh?'
The marshal agreed. The known dangers and hardships of the lava desert were preferable to the possibility of bumping into another bunch of bandits.
CHAPTER XX
The journey back to Lawless was uneventful. The cowboys, elated by the success of the expedition, endured discomfort with cheerful curses. The grave face of their guide alone gave no sign of satisfaction, though there was a deep content in his heart. He spoke seldom, a wave of the hand serving for words.
'Like a bloomin' image, ain't he?' Rusty said. 'But I'll risk a stack he's more pleased than any of us; Injuns is plenty deep thataways.'
But Rusty was wrong--there was a more contented man in the party than even Black Feather. For Andy Bordene, to be riding side by side with the girl he loved and had so nearly lost, turned even the terrible lava desert into a paradise. Together they watched the sun, a blaze of golden flame, drop behind the misty purple hills, and when its red rim peeped above the horizon they were in the saddle again on their way--home. And home--Andy told himself--was soon going to mean very much more to him than it had ever done, now that he had got his ranch back and was free to speak. Nevertheless, though he had plenty of opportunities--for the others, with knowing smiles, left them much to themselves--Andy could not screw up his courage, until they had crossed the Border and were nearing the Box B. They had lagged behind--a not infrequent occurrence--and a bend in the trail hid the rest of the party. Andy suddenly pulled up, and when the girl's mount instinctively did the same, the young man leaned forward, a look in his eyes which sent the warm blood to her cheeks.
'Tonia, do yu remember my sayin' I'd be comin' to yu for a job some day?' he began, and when she nodded, 'the day's here, an' I'm askin'. Honey, the job I want is to look after, work for, an' make Life good for yu always.'
His voice was low, husky, and revealed a depth of feeling she had never suspected in this gay, irresponsible playmate of her youth. A wave of happiness swept through her; she had long known the answer she must make, but, woman-like, she had to ask a question:
'Was that the job you were thinking of then, Andy?'
'Shore thing, Tonia; but I was in a money mess an' hadn't the right to speak. Now it's different. Do yu reckon yu could learn to love me, Tonia?'
