“About two hours.”
“Very well. Detail Lieutenant Brookes and twenty of our men to make the ditour. We'll keep the volunteers here.” The colonel looked annoyed. “I don't like this, Gordon,” he said. “I wish it might have come six months hence, when I shall be retired and growing roses in California with my wife on that bit of a ranch I've told you of.... Do be careful about those dogs; detail two or three of the best shots for that work.”
A bullet from Le Boyen's Winchester cut a leaf from just over the colonel's head.
“Better fall back, Colonel,” suggested Gordon, on the point of turning away.
There was another report from among the rocks, and the colonel sat down very stiffly on the trunk of a fallen tree, the expression of his face one of utter astonishment.
“Are you hit?” cried Gordon.
“I believe I am,” said the colonel in a whisper. He raised his hand to his breast as he spoke; then he coughed, and Gordon saw that there was blood on his lips. Before he could reach him, the colonel had fallen and lay quite still among the tangled underbrush.
They made a place for him on the edge of the timber, and Gordon covered him with his own coat.
“Poor old colonel!” he said sadly to his lieutenant. “He always wanted to grow a garden, poor fellow, and in six months he would have been free to amuse himself in his own way.” There was a pause. “Well, make up the ditour party and get it started; I'll give those redskins something to think of while Brookes is getting to their rear.”
During the next half-hour, from his place of concealment, the half-breed did much excellent shooting, now and again changing his position, while the bullets of the command flattened themselves on the rocks that hid him.