Straight toward the broken door he leaped, and his hand found the knob, but it refused to yield at his touch.
"Fast!" he panted. "Well, I'll try this!"
He hurled himself against the door, but it remained firm.
There were feet on the stairs; the desperadoes were coming.
At that moment he looked into the room through the break in the panel, and he saw a girl struggling with all her strength in the hands of a man. The man was trying to hold a hand over her mouth to keep her from crying out again, while a torrent of angry Spanish words poured in a hissing sound from his bearded lips.
As Frank looked the girl tore the fellow's hand from her lips, and her cry for help again rang out.
The wretch lifted his fist to strike her senseless, but the blow did not fall.
Frank was a remarkably good shot, and his revolver was in his hand. That hand was flung upward to the opening in the panel, and he fired into the room.
The burst of smoke kept him from seeing the result of the shot, but he heard a hoarse roar of pain from the man, and he knew he had not missed.
He had fired at the fellow's wrist, and the bullet had shattered it.