He was a broad-shouldered, big-chested man of fifty—the father of the youth who was now fighting beside him.
The guard shook his head. "Afraid not. Unless one of us could get through to Lost Springs, six miles from here. Even if we could, I don't think we'd get any help. There's not many livin' there, and they're all scared of Apaches. Can't say I blame 'em."
Bullets began to buzz again. The Indians were making another charge. A dense cloud of smoke hung over the ambushed coach. White powder spurts blossomed out from the brush, and the war cry came shrilly. The rush brought a line of half-naked warriors to within a few yards of the coach. Then they fell back again, leaving four of their number dead or wounded on the sand.
"So far, so good," panted the guard. "But we can't do that forever!"
The youngest of the party, pale of face but determined, spoke up quickly:
"I'm willin' to take the chance o' gettin' to Lost Springs," he said.
"Yuh can't make it alive through that bunch o' devils," the guard told him.
"It's our only chance," the other returned. "I'm goin' to try.
Good-by, dad!"
It was a sad, heart-wrenching moment. There was small chance that the two would ever see each other alive again. But father and son shook hands and passed it over with a smile.
"Good luck, son!"