Florabel had the floor, but another figure had moved into the light behind her. ‘You see, Mr. Burton, when we three wouldn’t turn back, they rode along with us, to protect us.’ That was Mary Gertling. So they had all reached the cabin. Elbert still felt confused. Slim’s voice broke in now, stern with dignity. ‘Seein’ as there’s no further need for us to be engaged in protectin’--otherwise we might ride on--’ Another rip. ‘... ride on what? Ride on where? Don’t you see we’re surrounded?’ ‘Papa!’ ‘Mexicali’ slowed down to bellow orders to his men, both Mexicans and Americans hurrying in and out. He rang bells in both languages. Meanwhile Cal and Slim had entered the lamp-lit quarters, and Elbert followed, meeting the eyes of Mary Gertling. Still those eyes hadn’t broken into tears; still that inexplicable stillness around her--the same faint trace of a smile, as in the first moment in Nacimiento. Now ‘Mexicali’ Burton and Cal Monroid were facing each other, like two chiefs--one instantaneous look. All they had seemed to need was this one look in the lamplight. Each knew a man. It was a moment of romantic fulfillment to Elbert. His mind had suddenly renewed its grasp on the fact that Bart Leadley might be a part of Vallejo’s lines now closing about; yet at the same time he could not miss the way the fighting face of ‘Mexicali’ Burton had suddenly softened and turned in appeal to Cal. ‘It was bad enough before,’ he was saying, slowly. ‘Vallejo’s got numbers. I trust my white men, but you never can trust the Mexicans. Cordano himself may double-cross me. Can’t tell when he’ll get some troops here. It was bad enough before, but what can a man do with three girls--?’ A whimsical smile was on Cal’s lips, which formed to answer, but the words were never spoken. That was the instant the gods of North America undertook to get a flash-light photograph of the lower end--stupefying flash and crash--blinding glare, heaving darkness, falling timbers, the scream of one horse. Elbert was on his knees, eyes and nostrils choked with dust. He thought of Mamie outside; then certain new business and nothing else occupied his brain. In that unbelievable glare, he had seen the face of Mary Gertling. The light hadn’t shone upon her face, it had flowed into it, through it. He had seen the secret of her stillness, and though he couldn’t recall the nature of it now, he was perfectly aware that an explosion like that might breed another and he must somehow get to her, before it happened again. He was calling. She called back just once. He was groping for her now. His hand touched objects, but they had nothing to do with what he groped for. His ears were filled with voices, but he was really listening only for one. His fingers touched the little fawnskin jacket, and beneath his face as he knelt, there was the queerest low sob; one arm came up and held him, and the words: ‘You shouldn’t have been quite so long--’