out of them, leaving them prostrate, gasping, battered, helpless.
The wily Hsu Fu and his men had found a weak place in the roof, a cleft worn deep by water, and their experiment of breaking through to the cave had succeeded.
A rush of air came through the tunnel. The plug of cactus had been yanked out as if attached to one of the cars. A horde of yellow men poured into the cavern where the flare lamp, hanging from a crowbar stuck into a superficial rift, glowed through the choking clouds.
Sheridan dragged himself to a mass of rock and tried to steady his left forearm upon it, firing at the dim, darting figures. One—or two—shots rang out beside him while, from the besiegers, there came the rattle of guns and the zip of bullets.
He had but one coherent thought. This was the end. Blood was surging through his brain. It seemed as if the blood vessels had broken down under pressure. His body lacked all co-ordination. He fired jerkily, without aim and effect. Yet the air was clearing. Somewhere, deep within him, his spirit summoned his will, that had gone far off, to return and assume control. Slowly he was recovering, but it was too late. Before he. . . .
Vaguely there drifted to his consciousness the wild squawk of auto horns, shouting that swelled into a cheer. It was the slogan of the cattle riders, high-pitched, exultant, athrill with a note of cheer, of triumph!
"Ya-hoo. Yi-yi-yippy-ya-hoo!"
