“Yavapai!” yelped Micky, springing up.
“Hooh!” exclaimed Big Mouth.
Micky had leveled his rifle—it missed fire. Now twenty paces before their rock was standing, on another rock, a tall Apache-Mohave. How he had sneaked this far, nobody might say. He must have run out from the near end of the rampart, while everybody was watching the far end. The smoke was very thick.
He did not know that there were two lines of enemy, and he had paused a moment to whoop his triumph at having passed the first line. How foolish! In a twinkle a score of carbines and rifles were focussed on him—John Cahill aimed, Joe Felmer aimed, Big Mouth aimed—they could not miss.
He was a fine, brave warrior—and he saw, too late.
“Soldados (Soldiers)!” he shrieked.
“Crash!” The guns all shot together; the bullets fairly lifted him and drove him topsy-turvy, riddled through and through from head to waist.
“Crowed a leetle soon, that feller,” commented Joe.