"The soldiers told me at Fort Grant about the 'Paches being out," Jack whispered hoarsely. "I thought they'd crossed the border into Mexico."
Seeing a spasm of pain sweep over Dick's face, he asked: "Are you hurt bad?"
"I don't know. My left leg is numb."
Both men spoke scarcely above a whisper, fearing to betray their positions by the sound of their voices. Dick lay on his back gathering strength to ward off with rifle and revolver the rush which would come sooner or later.
Jack caught the sound of a falling stone. Peering cautiously over the rock, he saw an Indian creep up a draw toward them. Throwing his rifle to his shoulder, he took quick aim and fired. The Apache jumped to his feet, ran a few steps forward, and fell sprawling. A convulsive shudder shook him, and he lay still.
"I got him!" cried Jack exultantly, as he saw the result of the shot.
But the exposure of his head and shoulders above their barricade had drawn forth more shots from other members of the band.
The bullets struck near the two men, showing that the Apaches had the range.
Dick's wound was bleeding freely, but the shock of the blow had passed away, and his strength returned. Drawing his revolver, he crept closer to Jack, crying: "I can shoot some."
"I reckon you haven't more than a flesh-wound," encouraged Jack. "Can you crawl to the horse?"