red word from man to man,--some word of
wonderment at the unlooked for lull in Apache siege operations,--was the
only sound to break the almost deathlike silence of the morning. There
was one other, far up among the stunted, shriveled pines and cedars that
jutted from the opposite heights. They could hear at intervals a weird,
mournful note, a single whistling call in dismal minor, but it brought
no new significance. Every day of their undesired and enforced sojourn,
every hour of the interminable day, that raven-like, hermit bird of the
Sierras had piped his unmelodious signal to some distant feathered
fellow, and sent a chill to the heart of more than one war-tried
soldier. There was never a man in Arizona wilds that did not hate the
sound of it. And yet, as eight o'clock was noted and still no sight or
sound of assailant came, Sergeant Carmody turned a wearied, aching eye
from his loophole and muttered to the officer crouching close beside
him: "I could wring the neck of the lot of those infernal cat crows,
sir, but I'll thank God if we hear no worse sound this day."

Blakely rose to his feet and wearily leaned upon the breastworks,
peering cautiously over. Yesterday the sight of a scouting hat would
have brought instant whiz of arrow, but not a missile saluted him now.
One arm, his left, was rudely bandaged and held in a sling, a rifle
ball from up the cliff, glancing from the inner face of the parapet,
had torn savagely through muscle and sinew, but mercifully scored
neither artery nor bone. An arrow, whizzing blindly through a
southward loophole, had grazed his cheek, ripping a straight red seam
far back as the lobe of the ear, which had been badly torn. Blakely
had little the look of a squire of dames as, thus maimed and scarred
and swathed in blood-stained cotton, he peered down the deep and
shadowy cleft and searched with eyes keen, if yet unskilled, every
visible section of the opposite wall. What could their silence mean?
Had they found other game, pitifully small in numbers as these
besieged, and gone to butcher them, knowing well that, hampered by
their wounded, these, their earlier victims, could not hope to escape?
Had they got warning of the approach of some strong force of
soldiery--Brewster scouting in search of them, or may be Sanders
himself? Had they slipped away, therefore, and could the besieged dare
to creep forth and shout, signal, or even fire away two or three of
these last precious cartridges