“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 canon, 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 canon 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.