I glanced in the direction indicated, and saw a horse covered in lather, with drooping head and general dejected appearance. I knew he must have had fearful riding to be in this condition.
“Well, you tell ’em, Jim,” replied Hank. “I reckon we’re here, all of us, to stay awhile.”
“I can’t afford to remain, Mr. Smith,” I said, thinking that the wrecked wagon might be the reason for the conversation. “If the outfit will hold together I think we had better go on as soon as possible.”
Smith looked at me with pitying eyes.
“You may never leave this place at all,” he returned, gravely. “This young man is the only survivor of a massacre, about ten miles from here. ‘Apache Kid’ and his band are, perhaps, at this very moment close to our gates.”
Instinctively I glanced at the gates, and noticed for the first time that heavy timbers were propped against them.
“Not only that, but McGill has disappeared,” continued Smith. “I think he may have gone in search of his pipe. We dare not risk going outside the enclosure, and he must get back as best he can.”
Just then the others of our party and Mrs. Smith, with the babe in her arms, joined us, having begun to realize that something was amiss.
Then Jim began to organize his forces. First he took an inventory of the available arms and ammunition, calling on our party to exhibit such weapons as we had about us.
Next Jim brought out a number of guns. There were three excellent repeating rifles, with several hundred rounds of ammunition, and an old shot-gun, which proved of no value. Next came Jim’s own pet—a beautiful double-barrelled shot-gun. With these were several boxes of ammunition. Last came a motley array of “six-shooters,” a part of which were serviceable and for which there was a limited amount of ammunition. Two hand-axes and a small affair for chopping firewood were counted as weapons for close quarters.