After a time, becoming anxious lest Clara should expose herself to the missiles, he went to Coronado’s room, sent one of the Mexicans to reinforce Meyer, and then climbed rapidly to the tower, taking along sabre, rifle, and revolver.  He was ascending the last of the stepped sticks, and had the trap-door of the isolated room just above him, when he heard a shout, “Come up here, somebody!”

It was the snuffling utterance of Phineas Glover, who slept on the roof as permanent guard of the ladies.  Tumbling into the room, Thurstane found the skipper and two muleteers defending the doorway against five Apaches, who had reached the roof, three of them already on their feet and plying their arrows, while the two others were clambering over the ledge.  Clara and Mrs. Stanley were crouched on their beds behind the shelter of the wall.

The young man’s first desperate impulse was to rush out and fight hand to hand.  But remembering the dexterity of Indians in single combat, he halted just in time to escape a flight of missiles, placed himself behind the jamb of the doorway, and fired his rifle.  At that short distance Sweeny would hardly have missed; and the nearest Apache, leaning forward with outspread arms, fell dead.  Then the revolver came into play, and another warrior dropped his bow, his shoulder shattered.  Glover and the muleteers, steadied by this opportune reinforcement, reloaded and resumed their file-firing.  Guns were too much for archery; three Indians were soon stretched on the roof; the others slung themselves over the eaves and vanished.

“Darned if they didn’t reeve a tackle to git up,” exclaimed Glover in amazement.

It appeared that the savages had twisted lariats into long cords, fastened rude grapples to the end of them, flung them from the wall below the Casa, and so made their daring escalade.

“Look out!” called Thurstane to the investigating Yankee.  But the warning came too late; Glover uttered a yell of surprise, pain, and rage; this time it was not his nose, but his left ear.

“Reckon they’ll jest chip off all my feeturs ’fore they git done with me,” he grinned, feeling of the wounded part.  “Git my figgerhead smooth all round.”

To favor the escalade, the Apaches in the plaza had renewed their war-whoop, sent flights of arrows at the Casa, and made a spirited but useless charge on the doorways.  Its repulse was the signal for a general and hasty flight.  Just as the rising sun spread his haze of ruddy gold over the east, there was a despairing yell which marked the termination of the conflict, and then a rush for the gaps in the wall of the enclosure.  In one minute from the signal for retreat the top of the hill did not contain a single painted combatant.  No vigorous pursuit; the garrison had had enough of fighting; besides, ammunition was becoming precious.  Texas Smith alone, insatiably bloodthirsty and an independent fighter, skulked hastily across the plaza, ambushed himself in a crevice of the ruin, and took a couple of shots at the savages as they mounted their ponies at the foot of the hill and skedaddled loosely across the plain.