“Hardly smarts, sir; it’s just as if somebody was playing at sewing it up with a red-hot skewer. Nice bold refreshing sort of pain.—Tchah! That’s all right.”
“But where are the mules and ponies, father?” said Chris, as they hurried now in the direction of the terraced cliff on their right.
“Hobbled, and grazing at the foot of our cliff under shelter of a couple of rifles.”
“But there are more Indians at the mouth of the gulch?”
“I don’t know,” said the doctor. “They had a fire burning there last night.”
“Yes,” said Chris dryly, “I know;” but he did not then attempt to explain how he knew.
“They haven’t shown since they felt the effect of our bullets, but they’re as cunning as they are treacherous, and one never knows what they may be about.”
Some quarter of an hour later the adventurers were all in shelter, one of the cells of the lower range having been turned into a temporary mess-room, while the next showed signs of cooking in the shape of a curling little column of smoke; there was water in buckets outside on the terrace, where, behind a kind of breastwork hastily piled-up, watch was being kept; and well in sight there were the animals of the little train, grazing contentedly enough well within range of the watchers’ rifles.
Chris felt like a hero after the warmth of his welcome was beginning to cool down. He had eaten almost ravenously, and assuaged the great thirst from which he had suffered. But now the great desire from which he suffered was want of sleep, for he was utterly weary and so stiff that he could hardly refrain from uttering a groan.
All the same he had been obliged to relate his adventures once more—such of them as had not been seen from the valley. But at last he was lying down in the cool shade in one of the cells and dropping off, but only to be aroused by the coming in of Ned, who was eager to hear more.