Part 18 (1/2)
Where got they their horses? The others--over half a dozen--come along at their tireless jog-trot. It was this party that, seen but dimly at first, gave rise to such ebullition of joy among the defenders and defended. It was this party that, closely scanned through his field-gla.s.s, occasioned Lieutenant Drummond's moan of distress. With all his heart he had been hoping for the speedy coming of relief over that very trail,--had counted on its reaching him during the day. He was sure it could be nothing else when the corporal reported something in sight, and so when he discovered the approaching party to be Apaches no words could describe the measure of his disappointment and dismay. Not for himself and his men; they were old hands and had a fine position to defend. His thoughts are all for those in whose behalf he has already made such gallant fight and for poor Wing, whose feeble moaning every now and then reaches his ear.
At ten o'clock he is able through his gla.s.ses to distinctly make out the number and character of the coming party. Nine Apaches, all warriors, but one of them apparently wounded or disabled, for they have to support him on the horse, and this it is that hampers their advance and makes it slower. They are heading for the oasis at the mouth of the canon. There they will leave their horses and their wounded, and then come creeping up the winding gorge or crouching among the bowlders from the east to join in the attack on the hated pale-face. Drummond can have no doubt of that. New dispositions are necessary.
”Stay where you are!” he shouts to his men. ”You take charge up here, Costigan; I want to post a man or two below at the bend.” And down he goes, sliding and scrambling until he reaches the edge of the brook.
Moreno, squatted against a rock, glances up at him appealingly.
”Senor Teniente, I pray you unloose me and let me help. The Apache is our common enemy,” he pleads.
An idea comes to Drummond. Wing's carbine can be utilized. He can post Moreno down the gorge at the second bend to command that approach and put little McGuffey, the recruit, at the next bend to command Moreno and send a bullet through him if he s.h.i.+rk or swerve.
”I declare, I believe I will, you old scoundrel,” he says. ”Here, McGuffey, untie this fellow. I've got to look around a minute.”
Into the depth of the fissure where Moreno's women are praying and rocking he peers a moment. One of the wounded bandits is now past praying for. The other, painfully shot but plucky, begs to be given a chance to fight for his life.
”You are too badly hurt now. We couldn't get you up there,” is the answer.
”Well, then, put me on with Moreno, wherever you're going to a.s.sign him. Surely if you can trust a Greaser you can a white man. I'm only fit to hang, perhaps, but d.a.m.n me if I want to lie here when there's an Indian fight going on.”
And so he, too, is unloosed and lifted to his feet. Leaning on McGuffey's shoulder and supported by his arm, the pale-faced stranger, preceded by Moreno, who goes limping and swearing _sotto voce_ down the rocky way, is led a hundred yards along the canon where it makes a second bend. Here they can see nearly one hundred and fifty more ahead of them, and here some loose bowlders are hurriedly shoved or rolled to form a rifle-pit, and these volunteer allies are placed in position.
”We cover the approaches above so that they can't sneak up and heave rocks down upon you. All you've got to do now is to plug every Apache that shows his nose around that bend below,” says Drummond. ”McGuffey, you take post at the point behind. Watch the overhanging cliffs and support as best you can.” And ”Little Mack,” as the men call him, gets further instructions as he takes his position, instructions which would give small comfort to Moreno could he only hear them. Then back goes the lieutenant to where Wing is lying, Miss Harvey bending anxiously over him, her beautiful eyes filling with tears at sight of Drummond's brave but haggard young face. Ruth is crouching by her sister's side, but rises quickly as Drummond enters, her fears lessening, her hopes gaining.
”Any news? Anything in sight--of ours?” is Miss Harvey's eager query.
”Not yet, but they're bound to be along almost any minute now. Some Apaches whom I could see coming across from the east have a wounded man with them. It makes me hope our fellows have met and fought them and are following close on their trail. How's Wing?”
She can only shake her head.
”He seems delirious every now and then; perhaps only because of so much mental excitement and suffering. He is dozing now.”
”Gallant fellow! What would we have done without him? I only wish we had more like him. Think how all my detachment has become scattered.
If we had them here now I could push out and drive the Indians to the rocks and far beyond all possibility of annoying you with their racket. Of course you are safe from their missiles down here.”
”Yes, _we_ are; but you and your soldiers, Mr. Drummond! Every shot made me fear you were hit,” cries poor little Ruth, her eyes filling, her lips quivering. Then, just as Drummond is holding forth a hand, perhaps it is an arm, too, she points up to the rock above where Walsh is evidently exercised about something. He has dropped his gun, picked up the gla.s.ses, and is gazing down the range to the south.
”Perhaps he sees some of our fellows coming for good this time. Four of them tried it awhile ago, but were probably attacked some miles below here and fell back on the main body. They'll be along before a great while, and won't it be glorious if they bring back the safe and all?” He says this by way of keeping up their spirits, then, once more wearily, but full of pluck and purpose, he climbs the rugged path and creeps to Walsh's side.
”Is it any of our men you see?” he whispers.
”Divil a wan, sir! it's more of thim infernal Apaches.”
Drummond takes the gla.s.s and studies the dim and distant group with the utmost care. Apaches beyond doubt, a dozen, and coming this way, and these, too, have a couple of horses. Can they have overpowered his men, ambushed and murdered them, then secured their mounts? Is the whole Chiricahua tribe, reinforced by a swarm from the Sierra Blanca, concentrating on him now? The silence about him is ominous. Not an Indian has shown along the range for half an hour, and now these fellows to the east are close to the copse. In less than twenty minutes there will be five times his puny force around him. Is there no hope of rescue?
Once more he turns to the east, across the s.h.i.+mmering glare of that parched and tawny plain, and strains his eyes in vain effort to catch sight of the longed-for column issuing from the opposite valley, but it is hopeless. The hot sun beats down upon his bruised and aching head and sears his bloodshot eyes. He raises his hand in mute appeal to heaven, and at the instant there is a flash, a sharp report not thirty yards away, an angry spat as the leaden missile strikes the shelving top of his parapet and goes humming across the gorge, a stifled shriek from Ruth looking fearfully up from below, an Irish oath from Walsh as he whirls about to answer the shot, and Drummond can barely repress a little gasp.
”Narrow squeak that, Wals.h.!.+ That devil has crawled close up on us. Can you see him?”
”Begad, sir, I can see nothing at all but rocks, rocks, rocks. How can a man fight anyway agin' human beings that crawl like snakes?”
Zip! Another shot close at hand, too, and from another unseen foe. The first came from somewhere among the bowlders down to the southeast, and this second whizzed from across the canon. A little puff of blue smoke is floating up from among the rocks fifty yards or so to the north of the narrow slit.