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 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 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 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.