"Here's hopin' we get Garvey before we go!" said Robbins fiercely.
A storm of bullets tore through the paloverdes, sending twigs and leaves flying. Kid Wolf smiled coolly along the barrel of his remaining gun, and he deliberately lined the sights.
The impact of the explosions kicked the heavy weapon about in his hand, but every shot brought grief to some savage. Robbins' gun also blazed.
A half dozen screaming Apaches rushed their position in the thicket. The charge failed, stopped by lead. Another came, almost in the same breath. It faltered, then came on, reënforced. There were too many of them for two men to check.
Kid Wolf understood their guttural cries as they advanced.
"They mean to take us alive!" he cried. "Don't let 'em do it, son!
It's better to die fightin'!"
But the Apaches seemed to have more than an ordinary reason for wanting to capture them. They came on, a coppery swarm, clubbing their guns.
There was no time to reload! The two young white men found themselves fighting hand to hand in desperate battle. Kid Wolf smashed two of the Indians, sending them sprawling back into their companions with broken heads. But still they came—dozens of them!
Robbins was down, then up again. He felt hands seize him. Kid Wolf felt the impact of a gun stock on his head. The world seemed to sway crazily. Even while falling to the ground he still fought, his hard fists landing on the faces and chests of the red warriors in smashing blows. His feet were seized, then one arm. In vain he tried to tear himself loose.
"Fine! Now throw some rope around 'em!" they heard Garvey say.