“Good heavens! What’s all that? Bourke, take the first forty men—doesn’t matter who—support Ross as quick as you can, and wait for the rest of the command. I’ll join you in short order. Hold your fire, if possible, till I arrive. Tell Ross the same.”
“Yes, sir,” and the strong, active figure of Lieutenant Bourke sprang to the trail. “Sergeant Turpin! Here!” Top Sergeant James Turpin was the nearest to him. “Count off forty men, as they come, white or red, and follow me. Quick, now!”
Chief Big Mouth yelped at his men in Apache; tossed away his blanket.
“Soldier-captain want men to fight Yavapai. Don’t let white men beat you!”
There was a rush for the trail. Soldiers and Indians both were eager. Sergeant Turpin had hard work. Jimmie saw no chance——
“Sh! Come!” hissed Micky, at him.
Micky had slipped over the edge. Only his red head could be seen. His feet were on a narrow ledge that, extending along, just held him. Below, the canyon wall of stunted brush and rough gray rock and frozen trickles fell sharply away, clear down to the cold river, a thousand feet! It was a dizzy sight.
Clutching his rifle, planted as a brace to steady him while he half kneeled, Micky twisted enough to beckon with his free hand.
“Come on. Leave your blanket.”
Micky’s blanket lay where he had peeled it. Without a thought of hesitation Jimmie doffed his own roll, and squirming flat fumbled, feet first, for the ledge; found it, and carefully lowered his body, backward. Ticklish work, that was, for a fellow in a hurry—although Micky apparently had done it as nimbly as a squirrel.