ky shoulder. The other two, close at hand, have rolled behind the
nearest shelter and thence send harmless bullets whizzing overhead.
Costigan lets drive a wild Irish yell of triumph and delight.

"Now, then, run for it, boy. Well done, you two, if ye are
blackguards," he calls to Moreno and his mate. "They won't disturb ye
again for ten minutes anyhow. Hold your post, though, till we call you
back. We're going to block the mouth of the cave."

Twenty minutes later and, working like beavers, Costigan and his two
men have lugged rocks, logs, bales of blankets, everything, anything
that can stop a bullet, and the entrance to the cave is being stoutly
barricaded. Patterson, who was sorely exposed at his post and ordered
down by Lieutenant Drummond, is aiding in the work. Wing has been
carefully borne into the back cave, whither, too, the wailing, quaking
Moreno women are herded and bidden to hold their peace. There, too,
Fanny and Ruth, silent, pallid perhaps, but making no moan, are now
kneeling by their patient. Costigan runs in with two buckets he has
filled with water and "Little Mac" follows with half a dozen dripping
canteens. More rocks are being lifted on the barricade, convenient
apertures being left through which to fire, and Costigan, feverishly
eager, is making every exertion, for any minute may be the last with
those plucky fellows battling there aloft. The air rings with the
shots of the encircling Apaches and with the loud report of the
cavalry carbine answering the hidden foe. Twice has Costigan implored
the lieutenant to come down anyhow, so long as his crippled condition
prevents his firing a gun, but Drummond pokes his bandaged head one
instant over the edge to shout something to the effect that he is "on
deck" until he has seen the last man down, and Costigan knows it is
useless to argue. At last the barricade is ready. Walsh, peering
grimly around, just the top of his head showing over the parapet, begs
for one shot and shouts his Hibernian challenge to the Apache nation
to come forth and show itself. Drummond picks up the glasses for one
final look down the desert and across the valley in search of friends
who surely should be coming, cautiously places the "binocular" on the
inner edge of the top of his shelving rock, then raises his head to
the level.

"Fur the love o' God, loot'n'nt, don't sit so high up!" implores
Walsh. "They're sure to spot--Oh, Christ!" And down goes the poor
faithful fellow,