“Head off those fellows on the right,” he rasped, to Lieutenant Shipp. Away darted stripling Shipp, to prevent the flank attack.
“Crawford’s dead—shot in the brain!” gasped the lieutenant to Jimmie. “He’s yonder, behind a rock. Horn’s shot in the arm. Those are Mexican irregulars. What are they up to? But they began it.”
The scouts were still firing rapidly on every moving form. The Mexicans were now hard to see.
“Give me orders to send out my men into the trees and rocks and we will kill every Mexican!” shouted Chato, to Tom Horn.
“Don’t waste bullets,” cautioned Tom, in Apache. “Be careful. We are many miles from more.”
“We will use the Mexicans’ guns,” retorted Chato.
“Give me the dead captain’s gun and belt and I will help you kill Mexicans,” spoke a new voice. “Make me your prisoner and tell me to fight.”
It was old Nana the Chiricahua chief. He had somehow tottered in, from the rear—he was ninety years of age and lame from a broken hip.
“I fight the Americans no more,” he cackled. “But I will fight the Mexicans any time. And so will all my people.”