in dread anxiety to the sounds of savage warfare echoing from crag to
crag along the range, while every moment or two the elder turns to
moisten the cloth she holds to a wounded trooper's burning, tossing
head. Sergeant Wing is fevered indeed by this time, raging with misery
at thought of his helplessness and the scant numbers of the defence.
It is a bitter pill for the soldier to swallow, this of lying in
hospital when every man is needed at the front. At nine o'clock this
morning a veteran Indian fighter, crouching in his sheltered lookout
above the caves and scanning with practised eye the frowning front of
the range, declared that not an Apache was to be seen or heard within
rifle-shot, yet was in no wise surprised when, a few minutes later, as
he happened to show his head above the rocky parapet, there came
zipping a dozen bullets about his ears and the cliffs fairly crackled
with the sudden flash of rifles hidden up to that instant on every
side. Indians who can creep upon wagon-train or emigrant camp in the
midst of an open and unsheltered plain find absolutely no difficulty
in surrounding unsuspected and unseen a bivouac in the mountains.
Inexperienced officers or men would have been picked off long before
the opening of the general attack, but the Apaches themselves are the
first to know that they have veteran troopers to deal with, for up to
this moment only one has shown himself at all. At five minutes after
nine o'clock Lieutenant Drummond, glancing exultingly around upon his
little band of fighters, had blessed the foresight of Pasqual Morales
and his gang that they had so thoroughly fortified their lair against
sudden assault. Three on the southern, two on the northern brink of
the gorge and behind impenetrable shelter, and two more in reserve in
the cañon, his puny garrison was in position and had replied with such
spirit and promptitude to the Apache attack that only at rare
intervals now is a shot necessary, except when for the purpose of
drawing the enemy and locating his position a hat is poked up on the
muzzle of a carbine. The assailants' fire, too, is still, but that, as
Drummond's men well know, means only "look out for other devilment."
Out on the eastward desert, still far over towards the other side, a
little party of Apaches is hurrying to join the fray. Two are riding.
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-glass, 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 glasses 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 cañon. 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.
"Señor 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 shirk 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 assign
him. Surely if you can trust a Greaser you can a white man. I'm only
fit to hang, perhaps, but damn 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 cañon 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 glasses, 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 glass 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 shimmering 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, Walsh! 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 cañon. A little puff of blue
smoke is floating up from among the rocks fifty yards or so to the
north of the narrow slit.
Crouching lower, Drummond calls across to Costigan, posted as the
easternmost of the two men on the opposite side,--
"That fellow is nearest you, corporal; can you see nothing of him?"
"Nothing, sir; I was looking that way, too, when he fired. Not even
the muzzle of his gun showed."
This is serious business. If one Indian or two can find it so easy to
creep around them and, armed only with their old muzzle-loading guns,
send frequent shots that reach the besieged "in reverse," what can be
hoped when the whole band gathers and every rock on every side
shelters a hostile Apache? From the first Drummond has feared that
however effective might be these defences against the open attack of
white men, they are ill adapted to protect the defenders against the
fire of Indians who can climb like squirrels or crawl or squirm
through any chink or crevice like so many snakes.
Another shot! Another bullet flattens itself on the rock close to his
right shoulder and then drops into the dust by his knee. It comes from
farther up the cliff,--perhaps two hundred yards away among those
stunted cedars,--but shudderingly close. Costigan and the other men
glance anxiously over their shoulders at the point where their young
commander and Walsh are crouching. They are not yet subjected to a
fire from the rear, these others. The lookout, the signal-station, as
it might be called, is the highest point and most exposed about the
position.
"For God's sake, lieutenant," cries the corporal, "don't stay there.
They've got your range on two sides anyhow. Come out of it. You and
Walsh can slip down as we open fire. We'll just let drive in every
direction until you are safe below."
Drummond hesitates. He sees a half-pleading look in Walsh's honest
face. The Irishman would willingly tackle the whole tribe in open
fight, but what he doesn't like is the idea of being potted like a
caged tiger, never knowing whence came the shot that laid him low.
Then the lieutenant peers about him. Yes, it is exposed to fire from a
point in the cliffs to the west, and there are rocks over there to the
north that seem to command it; but if abandoned there will be no way
of preventing a bold advance on part of the Apaches up the rugged
eastward slope. It would then stand between the defenders and the
assailants, giving to the latter incalculable advantage. Hold it he
must for a few minutes at least, until, recalling McGuffey, he can set
him and one or two others to work piling up a rock barricade in front
of the cave. Then if driven out and no longer able to stand the
Indians off, they can retire into the caves themselves, hide their
precious charges in the farthest depths, and then, like Buford at
Gettysburg, "fight like the devil" till rescue come.
"No, down with you, Costigan," he answers. "Get McGuffey and Fritz;
block up the front of the cave with rocks; move in those Moreno women;
carry Sergeant Wing back to the farther cave,--Miss Harvey will show
you where. Stand fast the rest of you. Don't let an Indian close in on
us."
"Look, lieut'nant," whispers Walsh; "they're coming up down beyant you
there."
And, peeping through a narrow slit left in his parapet, Drummond can
just see bobbing among the bowlders far down towards the willow copse
two or three Apache crests,--Apache unmistakably, because of the
dirty-white turban-like bandages about the matted black locks. At that
distance they advance with comparative security. It is when they come
closer to the defenders that they will be lost to view.
Obedient to his orders, Costigan slips out of his shelter and "takes a
sneak" for the edge of the cliff. In an instant, from half a dozen
points above, below, and on both sides, there come the flash and crack
of rifles. The dust is kicked up under his nimble feet, but he reaches
unharmed the cleft in which some rude steps have been hacked, and
goes, half sliding, half scraping, down into the cooler depths below.
"Mother of Moses!" he groans, "but we'll never get the lieut'nant out
alive. Shure they're all around him now."
Then bounding down the gorge he finds McGuffey kneeling at the point.
"They're coming, Barney," whispers the boy, all eager and tremulous
with excitement, and pointing down between the vertical walls. "Look!"
he says.
Gazing ahead to the next bend, Costigan can see Moreno and his Yankee
_compadre_ crouching behind their shelter, their carbines levelled,
their attitude betokening intense excitement and suspense. It is
evident the enemy are within view.
"I'll have one shot at 'em, bedad, to pay for the dozen their brother
blackguards let drive at me," mutters Costigan. "Come on, you; it's
but a step." And, forgetful for the moment of his orders in his
eagerness for fight, the Irishman runs down the cañon, leaps the
swirling brook just as he reaches the point, and, obedient to the
warning hand held out by their bandit ally, drops on his knees at the
bend, McGuffey close at his heels. Off go their hats. Those broad
brims would catch an Indian eye even in that gloom.
"How many are there coming?" he whispers.
Moreno puts his finger on his lips, then throws out his hand, four
fingers extended.
"One apiece then, be jabers! Now, Little Mac, you're to take the
second from the right,--their right, I mean,--and doan't you miss him
or I'll break every bone in your skin."
"Hist!"
Down they go upon their faces, then, Indian-like, they crawl a few
feet farther where there is a little ledge. The cañon widens below;
the light is stronger there, and, bending double, throwing quick
glances at one another, then from sheer force of Indian habit shading
their eyes with their brown hands as they peer to the front;
exchanging noiseless signals; creeping like cats from rock to rock;
leaping without faintest sound of the moccasined foot across the
bubbling waters, four swarthy scamps are coming stealthily on. Two
others are just appearing around the next bend beyond.
"Ready, boys? They're near enough now. Cover the two leaders! Drop the
first two anyhow!"
Breathless silence, thumping hearts one instant longer, then the chasm
bellows with the loud reports. The four guns are fired almost as one.
One half-naked wretch leaps high in air and falls, face downward, dead
as a nail. Another whirls about, bounds a few yards along the
brook-side, and then goes splashing into a shallow pool, where he lies
writhing. The two farthest down the cañon have slipped back behind the
rocky shoulder. The other two, close at hand, have rolled behind the
nearest shelter and thence send harmless bullets whizzing overhead.
Costigan lets drive a wild Irish yell of triumph and delight.
"Now, then, run for it, boy. Well done, you two, if ye are
blackguards," he calls to Moreno and his mate. "They won't disturb ye
again for ten minutes anyhow. Hold your post, though, till we call you
back. We're going to block the mouth of the cave."
Twenty minutes later and, working like beavers, Costigan and his two
men have lugged rocks, logs, bales of blankets, everything, anything
that can stop a bullet, and the entrance to the cave is being stoutly
barricaded. Patterson, who was sorely exposed at his post and ordered
down by Lieutenant Drummond, is aiding in the work. Wing has been
carefully borne into the back cave, whither, too, the wailing, quaking
Moreno women are herded and bidden to hold their peace. There, too,
Fanny and Ruth, silent, pallid perhaps, but making no moan, are now
kneeling by their patient. Costigan runs in with two buckets he has
filled with water and "Little Mac" follows with half a dozen dripping
canteens. More rocks are being lifted on the barricade, convenient
apertures being left through which to fire, and Costigan, feverishly
eager, is making every exertion, for any minute may be the last with
those plucky fellows battling there aloft. The air rings with the
shots of the encircling Apaches and with the loud report of the
cavalry carbine answering the hidden foe. Twice has Costigan implored
the lieutenant to come down anyhow, so long as his crippled condition
prevents his firing a gun, but Drummond pokes his bandaged head one
instant over the edge to shout something to the effect that he is "on
deck" until he has seen the last man down, and Costigan knows it is
useless to argue. At last the barricade is ready. Walsh, peering
grimly around, just the top of his head showing over the parapet, begs
for one shot and shouts his Hibernian challenge to the Apache nation
to come forth and show itself. Drummond picks up the glasses for one
final look down the desert and across the valley in search of friends
who surely should be coming, cautiously places the "binocular" on the
inner edge of the top of his shelving rock, then raises his head to
the level.
"Fur the love o' God, loot'n'nt, don't sit so high up!" implores
Walsh. "They're sure to spot--Oh, Christ!" And down goes the poor
faithful fellow, the blood welling from a deep gash along the temple.
He lies senseless at his commander's feet.
For a moment the air seems alive with humming missiles and shrill with
yells from on every side. In their triumph three or four savage foes
have leaped up from behind their sheltering rocks, and one of them
pays the penalty,--a vengeful carbine from across the cañon stretches
the lithe, slender, dusky form lifeless among the rocks, with the
dirty white of his breech-clout turning crimson in the noonday glare.
Up from the cave, cat-like, Patterson and "Little Mac" come climbing
the narrow trail. Between them they drag Walsh's senseless body to the
edge, and then, somehow, despite hissing, spattering lead, they bear
him safely down and carry him within the cave.
"Now call in Moreno and help his partner back!" shouts Drummond, and
Costigan goes at speed to carry out the order. A few minutes of
intense excitement and suspense, then Moreno is seen limping around
the point. Behind him Costigan is slowly helping their brigand friend.
A few more shots come singing overhead. A moment more and the watchful
Indians will come charging up the now unguarded cañon and crowning
both banks.
"Now, lads, give 'em two or three shots apiece to make them hug their
cover. Then down for the caves, every man of you," is the order.
For a moment the Indian fire is silenced in the rapid fusillade that
follows. Sharp and quick the carbines are barking their challenge, and
whenever a puff of powder-smoke has marked the probable lurking-place
of an Apache, thither hiss the searching bullets warning him to keep
down. Then Costigan comes climbing to the lookout.
"Let us help you, lieut'nant; now's your time, sir, while they're
firing."
But Drummond shakes his head. He wants to be the last man down.
"Don't hang on here, sir. Come now. Sure the others can get down from
where they are easy enough, but you can't except when they're firing.
Please come, sir," and Costigan in his eagerness scrambles to the
lieutenant's side and lays a broad, red hand on his shoulder. The men
have fired more than the designated number of shots and now are
looking anxiously towards their commander. They do not wish to move
until he does.
"Give 'em another whack all around, fellers," shouts Costigan, "while
I help the loot'n'nt down;" and so, with a laugh, Drummond gives it
up, and after one last wistful glance out over the desert, turns to
pick up the binocular, when it is struck, smashed, and sent clattering
down into the cañon by a shot fired not twenty yards away.
"Fur God's sake come quick, sir!" gasps Costigan. Then, desperate at
his loved young leader's delay, the Irishman throws a brawny arm about
him and fairly drags him to the end of the steep. Then down they go,
Costigan leading and holding up one hand to sustain Drummond in case
of accident. Down, hand under hand, to the accompaniment of cracking
rifles and answering carbines, while every other second the bullets
come "spat" upon the rocky sides, close and closer, until, panting,
almost breathless, Costigan reaches the solid bottom of the gorge and
swings Drummond to his feet beside him. Seeing their leader safely
down, the men, with one defiant shot and cheer, scurry to the edge of
the cañon, and come slipping and sliding to join their comrades. At
the mouth of the cave Costigan strives to push Drummond in through the
narrow aperture left for their admission, but miscalculates his
commander's idea of the proprieties. Like gallant Craven at Mobile
Bay, Drummond will seek no safety until his men are cared for. "After
you, pilot," the chivalric sailor's last word as the green waters
engulfed his sinking ship, finds its cavalry echo in Drummond's "After
you, corporal," in this far-away cañon in desert Arizona. The men have
scrambled through the gap, then Costigan, with reluctant backward
glance, is hurried in just as a flash of flame and smoke leaps
downward from the crest and the foremost Apache sends a hurried,
ill-aimed shot at the last man left. Before another shot can follow,
Drummond's arm is seized by muscular hands and he is dragged within
the gap. Two or three huge stones are rolled into place, and in an
instant through the ragged loop-holes the black muzzles of half a
dozen carbines are thrusting, and Costigan shouts exultingly, "Now,
you black-legged blackguards, come on if ye dare!"
But no Apache is fool enough to attack a strong position. Keeping well
under cover, the Indians soon line the crest and begin sending down a
rain of better-aimed bullets at the loop-holes, and every minute the
flattened lead comes zipping through. One of these fearful missiles
tears its way through Costigan's sleeve and, striking poor old Moreno
in the groin, stretches him groaning upon the floor. A glance shows
that the wound is mortal, and, despite his crimes, the men who bear
him, moaning, in to the farther cave are moved to sudden sympathy as
his hapless wife and child prostrate themselves beside his rocky bier.
Drummond can afford to lose no more, and orders the lower half of each
hole to be stopped with blankets, blouses, shirts, anything that will
block a shot, and then for an hour the fire of the besiegers is
harmless, and no longer can the besieged catch even an occasional
glimpse of them. At noon their fire has ceased entirely and, even when
breathing a sigh of relief, the men look into one another's faces
questioningly. How long can this last? How hot, how close the air in
the cave is growing!
Drummond has gone for a moment into the inner chamber, where Moreno is
now breathing his last, to inquire for Wing and to speak a word of
cheer to his fair and devoted nurses. Not one murmur of complaint or
dread has fallen from their lips, though they know their father to
have ridden on perilous quest and into possible ambush; though they
know their brother to be lying at the ruined ranch, perhaps seriously
wounded; though their own fate may be capture, with indescribable
suffering, shame, and death. Fanny Harvey has behaved like a heroine,
as the two troopers remarked, and Ruth has done her best to follow her
sister's lead. Yet they, too, now realize how close and stifling the
heavy atmosphere is growing. Is it to be black hole of Calcutta over
again? Even as he takes her hand in his Drummond reads the dread in
Ruth's tearless face. Even as he holds it and whispers words of hope
and comfort there is a heavy, continuous, crashing sound at the mouth
of the cave, just in front of the rock barricade, and he springs back
to learn the cause.
"They're heaving down logs and brushwood, sir," whispers Costigan.
"They mean to roast us out if they can't do anything else."
More thunder and crash; more heaping up of resinous logs from the
cliffs above them. Some of the men beg to be allowed to push out and
die fighting, but Drummond sternly refuses. "At the worst," he says,
"we can retire into the back cave; we have abundant water there. The
air will last several hours yet, and I tell you help will
come,--_must_ come, before the day is much older."