“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.