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.
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