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 canon 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 canon 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 canon 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