t
up for breastworks, lining their sights carefully, firing with slow
deliberation. Now and again a man swore or rolled over in limp
silence; and the sandy earth under the wagons began to show red
patches of congealing blood.

By noon the forces of the enemy had been augmented by other Apaches
who had come to enjoy the party until their number now reached more
than three hundred. And the afternoon sun came down hot upon the
handful of white men. Ammunition began to run low.

The day dragged on and the weary business kept up until the sun was
seeking the western horizon, when a squad of seven cavalrymen on their
way from Camp Grant to Tucson happened to hear the firing. They came
charging into the battle as enthusiastically as if they were seven
hundred, and cut right through the ring of the Apaches.

Under one of the wagons the sergeant in charge of the troopers held
counsel with Santa Cruz Castaneda. Cartridges were getting scarce; the
number of the Apaches was still growing; there was no chance of any
other body of soldiers coming along this way for a week or so at the
least.

"Only way to do is make a break for it," the sergeant said.

The wagon-master yielded to a fate which was too great for him and
consented to abandon the train. They bided their time until what
seemed a propitious moment and then, leaving their dead behind them,
the sixteen survivors--which number included the seven soldiers--made
a charge at the weakest segment of the circle. Under a cloud of arrows
and a volley of bullets they ran the gantlet and came forth with their
wounded. Hanging grimly together, they retreated, holding off the
pursuing savages, and eventually made their way to Camp Grant.

Now the point on which the little newspaper item dwells is the fact
that the Indians burned the entire wagon-train, entailing a loss of
twelve thousand dollars to Tully & Ochoa and of twenty thousand
dollars to the United States government. On the heroics it wastes no
type. It seems to have been regarded as bad taste in those days to
talk about a man's bravery. Either that, or else the bravery was taken
for granted.

In that same canyon near Camp Grant two teamsters died, as the berserks
of old used to like to die, taking many enemies with them to the great
hereafter. James Price, a former soldier, was the name of one, and the
name which men wrote on the headboard of the other was Whisky Bill. By
that appellation you may sketch your own liken