With the first grayness Jimmie was up, to unlimber, and listen. The attack upon the Chiricahua camp was due. The moments dragged. The doctor and Concepcion seemed to have dropped asleep at last, but they, also, shivered in their uneasy slumber. This was the coldest period of the night—just at dawn.
XXVI
FOES OR FRIENDS?
Gradually the shadows upon the rocks and timber paled; and then, suddenly—hark!
Rifle-shots! A spatter—a volley—more and faster, rolling and echoing among the crags! The attack had been made. Throwing aside their blankets, up sprang the doctor and Concepcion, bewildered and staggering, but awake.
“Fighting!” exclaimed the doctor. “They’ve struck the hostiles! Good!”
“Much shooting, much shooting,” stammered old Concepcion.
For fifteen minutes the rapid firing continued. It lessened, to dropping, scattered shots, and in about an hour ceased altogether. The sun rose.
“What’ll we do now?” demanded the doctor, of Jimmie. “Crawford’s licked them, don’t you think?”
“Sounded like it, doctor. But we’d better be watching sharp. Some of the bronc’s are liable to come this way.”