the blood welling from a deep gash along the temple.
He lies senseless at his commander's feet.

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, w