“Here’s a splendid place for a stand,” said Jack, pointing to a deep fissure adjacent.
“Le’s climb for that, and if there’s any ’Patchies in the gully, yender, ye’ll see how quick they’ll come skinning out, when they find out we’ve found ’em out.”
“And we’ll rout them out, right out,” said the Canadian, mimicking Jack’s speech. The latter turned upon him and grasped him by the throat.
“This ain’t the first time you’ve insulted me,” he cried; “but, by Judas, it’ll be the last.”
Huff! a stream of flame shot out from the shadow, a loud report sounded, and a bullet whistled past Jack’s head. His timely and sudden change of position had saved his life.
Letting loose the malicious Canadian, he spurred his horse toward the fissure.
“Come on!” he cried, “we are attacked! Yonder’s the other pack coming back to help; right down in this gully; now, lively!”
Pell-mell, helter-skelter, they dashed recklessly into the friendly fissure, while simultaneously a hideous, blood-curdling yell rung out from the black, shadowy gulch, and a harmless volley sped over their heads. They were discovered and perhaps entrapped—the fight had arrived, and they were opposed to and harassed by, five times their number of wily, cruel, unrelenting foes.
In five minutes the “reach” was swarming with yelling, screeching and bloodthirsty Apaches, forming to pounce upon the devoted band below.