“An’ sure’s me name’s Dennis, they’re all waitin’ to receive me!”
As he approached the spot a shout was raised, and his elation vanished. Believing it to be a “war cry,” the vicissitudes of the morning ended in collapse. He caught a glimpse of Carlota being lifted from her burro and led away between two squaws. It seemed to him that these forced her up a steep ladder, then threw her downward into some invisible depth. Heaped with his own burdens, the Irishman sank to the ground. An ague of fear shook him, his face paled, and a cold sweat came out upon his temples. Cowering thus in terror, he saw the assembled Indians swoop down upon him from the terrace. Then, as do those in mortal extremity, he began to see visions and dream dreams, and fancy suddenly brought before him the face, as he had imagined it, of Miguel, the Hated! In similar circumstance, what would this much-envied “Greaser” have done?
The thought of the Spaniard acted like a tonic. With a yell as wild as an Indian’s own, Dennis now arose, while the encumbering blankets and saddles fell unheeded about him. Thrusting his hand into his belt he unsheathed his dangerous dirk, crying:
“Carlota! Me own little lady! Have no fear! ’Tis comin’ I am—so ’ware to ye, ye bloodthirsty, murderin’ Injuns! Leave her go—leave!”
Mad with his own prowess he blindly rushed forward, his shining blade catching the rays of the sun and fiercely heralding his advance.
But, hark! His enemies were upon him! He made one tremendous lunge with his terrible knife, and Mr. Fogarty knew no more.
CHAPTER XXVI
CONFLICTING EMOTIONS
“Dennis! Dennis! Please open your eyes. O, Dennis! How could you be so foolish?”
“Eh? What? Hey? An’ be I still—alive?”
“It’s not by your own merit that you are. But, since you’ve only broken your arm and cracked your head, I’m thankful to scold you, Dennis. Silly, silly fellow!”