Not so much rage as loathly horror of an unclean thing sped furious summons to every muscle spring in his body. With his shoulder planted against the Spaniard’s chest for a leverage Grant tore loose the man’s grip from Benicia. Before he could whirl to shift his attack Urgo had screamed an oath and was on the American’s back, legs twining to cumber Grant’s thighs, both hands clamped about his throat. It was the catamount’s attack. The first impact of his antagonist’s weight nearly over-balanced Grant and precipitated both into the maelstrom of waters not six feet below their ledge. But, steadying himself, the American suddenly launched backward, pinning the lighter body on his back against a wall of rock. It was a terrific smash. Urgo’s breath came in a whistle from it. His hands sank deeper into the muscles about Grant’s throat, closing his windpipe. Deliberately the standing man took a few forward steps, then swiftly back against the wall again. An elbow of rock found the Spaniard’s ribs and cracked two. He shrieked. Now Grant’s hands went up to lock behind the head that sagged over his right shoulder. Strength of desperation flooded into his arms, for the weaker man had him throttled. Urgo must release his hold on Grant’s throat or suffer a broken neck. The constricting hands slackened their grip ever so little. Grant bowed his shoulders, gave a mighty heave and swept the Colonel’s body over his shoulder in a wide arc. The man sprawled, arms wide, through the air, struck the edge of the rocky apron. He clawed--slipped--clawed again, and disappeared. CHAPTER XXV TREASURE TROVE The storm ceased with the same suddenness as it began. Hardly an hour had torrential waters lashed the cinder wastes of Pinacate when the black pall over the heavens broke away and the sun came out to suck hungrily at pools in the rocks. There was a headiness of wine in the air, a smell of wet soil mingled with spicy emanations from greasewood and _palo verde_. The desert’s sparse growing things exulted in the breaking of long drought. For a long time Grant and Benicia on their side of the gorge and Bim in his retreat opposite lay hidden, awaiting possible renewal of the attack which the storm had scattered. But the torrent that still raged down the bottom of the gorge had washed clean every vestige of an enemy. Quelele on his high post saw four scattered horsemen rushing pell-mell for the gateway onto the desert--last vestige of Urgo’s rurales force, each man of which gave thanks to his patron saint that he had come out of the hell in the mountain cul-de-sac with a whole skin.