Frank Merriwell was right behind the girl, and he seemed to lift her and fling her into the loft.
"There they go!" rang the voice of the real Black Harry. "Up the stairs!"
"This is no time for talk!" cried Frank, as he crouched at the head of the flight, his teeth set, and the light of desperation in his eyes.
The braves came rushing up the stairs, and the boy above thrust out both hands, each of which held a revolver.
Frank fired four shots, and the smoke shut out the faces of the fierce rascals on the stairs. He heard cries of pain and the sound of falling bodies.
"I didn't waste my bullets," came grimly from his lips.
But what could he do now? He had repulsed them for the time, but they were in the cabin, and it would not be for long that he could keep them back. They would soon find a way to reach him.
He leaped to the swinging window and flung it open, thrusting the revolvers lightly into the side pockets of the coat he wore. He looked down into the depths of the chasm, through which ran the stream of water.
"It is a long distance down there," came hoarsely from the lad's lips. "I will try it! It is our last hope."
With a bound, he caught up the coil of rope, then he rushed to the window and flung it out. As one end was made fast to a rafter, it hung dangling from the window.