They ducked behind rocks or trees and piled off their horses in a burry. And a scattered fusillade from the rim-rock ahead of them proved how urgent was their need.
For the first fifteen minutes or so they thought that they were fighting Ramon and his party, and their keenest emotions were built largely of resentment, which showed in the booming voice of Big Medicine when he said grimly:
“Well, I'd jest about as soon pack Ramon in dead, as lead 'im in alive 'n' kickin', by cripes! Which is him, d'yuh reckon?”
From behind a rock shield luck was studying the ledge. “They're Injuns—or there are Injuns in the bunch, at least,” he told them after a moment. “See that sharp point sticking up straight ahead? I saw an Injun peeking around the edge—to the south. You watch for him, Andy, and let him have it where he lives next time be sticks his head out.” He swung the glasses slowly, taking every inch of the rim in his field of vision. As he moved them be named the man he wanted to watch each place where he had reason to suspect that someone was hiding.
The disheartening part of it was that he needed about a dozen more men than he had; for the rock wall which was the rim of the Frying-pan seemed alive with shooters who waited only for a fair target. Then the Native Son, crouched down between a rock and a clump of brush, turned his head to see what his horse was looking at, back whence they had come.
“Look behind you, Luck,” he advised with more calmness than one would expect of a man in his straits. “They're back in the pines, too.”
“Fight 'em off—and take care that your backs don't show to those babies on the rim-rocks,” he ordered instantly, thrusting his glasses into their case and snatching his rifle from its boot on the saddle. “They won't tackle coming across that bare hollow, even if they can get down into it without breaking their necks. Happy, lead your horse in here between these rocks where mine is. Bud, see if you can get the pack-horses over there outa sight among those bushes and rocks. We'll hold 'em off while you fix the horses—can't let ourselves be set afoot out here!”
“I-should-say—NOT!” Andy Green punctuated the sentence with a shot or two. “Say, I wish they'd quit sneaking around in those trees that way, so a fellow could see where to shoot!”
A half hour dragged by. From the rim-rock came occasional shots, to which the besieged could not afford to reply, they were so fully occupied with holding back those who skulked among the trees. The horses, fancying perhaps that this was a motion-picture scene, dozed behind their rock-and-brush shelters and switched apathetically at buzzing flies and whining bullets alike. Their masters crouched behind their bowlders and watched catlike for some open demonstration, and fired when they had the slightest reason to believe that they would hit something besides scenery.
“Miguel must have upset their plans a little,” Luck deduced after a lull. “They set the stage for us down in that hollow, I guess. You can see what we'd have been up against if we had ridden ten rods farther, out away from these rocks and bushes.”