“Two killed, three wounded badly; net balance thirteen. That number is
unlucky. We’ll win!”
“What in the name of common sense are you talking about?” asked Bates,
who was bending over me.
“Well, there were twenty-three Indians when we started; we killed four
at first shot, three at the second, and two at the third, besides
wounding three beyond present help. That leaves thirteen, doesn’t it?”
We were recalled to a sense of our peril by the sound of breaking
timbers. The gates were being forced!
Through the chinks we could see the Indians working industriously with
a battering-ram, improvised from the trunk of a tree. At any moment the
gates might fall, and we knew there would be little hope for us once
the red-skins gained an entrance.
Jim now sent his wife inside the house for better protection. The
little babe had, up to this time, been peacefully sleeping on the
bed, which must now be used to barricade the door of the house.
Consequently, the little fellow was disturbed as his mother moved the
huge affair against the opening, and he, too, added to the din of the
engagement.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Jim, “we’ve got to make a last stand. The gates
will be down in a minute; they have been greatly weakened by the fire.
Every one of you to the roof!”
Up to the roof we climbed as a last resort. I think we all realized the
gravity of the situation.
We stretched ourselves flat, weapons in hand, and waited. It seemed
ages. We could hear the cries of the infant mingled with the sobs of
the distracted mother. Bates, who had an abominable voice, tried to
sing a hymn. Smith told him to be quiet--the situation was trying
enough without his music.
Presently there came a crash--the gates were down. In rushed the
red-skins, a fearless crowd. There were just thirteen; I counted them.
“Now, gentlemen, let ’em have it,” called Jim, in a low tone.
Well, we did let them have it; there was no mistake about that. There
was a blaze from the rifles, Jim’s shot-gun, and the revolvers, and we
all pumped lead as fast as we could.
When the smoke cleared a little we looked below. There were eight
red-skins as dead as ever they could be. Three more were crawling away
on all fours, seriously wounded.
This left two on my record unaccounted for. We soon spied them making
off over the little hills towards Brick Dust Canyon as fast as their
legs could carry them.
One of them was “Apache Kid,” the leader. He got off with a whole skin,
but I’ll wager that he had some marks about his face.
When we got down from the roof we could no longer hear Mrs. Smith or
the babe, and feared they had been killed by stray bullets. Repeated
calls failed to bring response.
When we forced an entrance we found her in a dead faint, lying on the
bed beside the infant, who was chewing his fist and chuckling as if in
great glee.
Woman-like, Mrs. Smith deferred her swoon till all danger was past.
To the delight of McGill, his miserable briar was recovered that day by
Jim, who said he did not want the well spoiled, otherwise he would have
left it there.
“Shot-gun Jim”--for that is how he is always known now, on account of
his fearful execution with his shot-gun, for it was he who really saved
the day--has never been troubled by Apaches since. He still insists
on living in that forsaken spot, forgetful of the terrible scenes of
carnage and danger he has passed through, working at a copper mine
which he discovered up beyond Brick Dust Canyon.
[Illustration: A Perilous Mission.]