|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 6
Taking the useless boulders from the edge of the cliff, but
carefully, so as not to expose himself to the fire of the
Apaches, he piled them on top of the upper wall in such a fashion
as to form little turrets. He left an opening in each, through
which he could observe, in turn, each point of the compass whence
danger might be expected, and could fire his Winchester without
exposing himself. Then he began going from post to post on a
continuous round of self-imposed sentinel duty. "If I could only
climb the sahuaro," he thought, "and fly my red shirt as a flag,
to let the Rurales know I've flanked the enemy, it might hurry
them along in time to put a crimp in these devils before they get
me. But it'll have to be 'Hold the Fort' without any 'Oh, Say
Can You See?' business. Anyhow, I'm flying the rattlesnake flag
of Bunker Hill, 'Don't Tread on Me!' Whether the Rurales see it
or not, I've saved their hides. If the Apaches had got to this
fort first, gee, how they would have crumpled up the Greasers as
they came along the trail!"
Rendered thirsty by his exertions, Lane remembered the canteen in
the bisnaga, which he had forgotten among his other preparations
for defense. He cautiously reached his hand over the ledge, and
secured the precious vessel, but, as he was withdrawing it, PING!
came a bullet through the canteen, knocking it out of his hand.
As it fell clattering down the side of the ledge, he groaned:
"Damned good shooting! They've probably left their best
marksman below with the ponies. No hope for escape on that side.
Well, there's some consolation in the thought that they'll
undoubtedly finish me before I get too damned thirsty. Glad it
wasn't my hand."
Although the period he spent waiting for the attack was less than
an hour by his watch, it seemed to last so long that he had hopes
that the Rurales would appear in time to rescue him. His spirits
rose with the prospect. Looking about him at the walls, the
fireplace, and the red cross, he reflected: "I am not the first
man, or even the first white man, that has withstood an attack in
this place." In imagination he constructed the history of the
fort. Here, in ages remote, a tribe of Indians, defeated and
driven to the mountains had constructed an outpost against their
enemies of the plain, but these had captured the stronghold, and
fortified it against its former occupants. Later, a band of
Spanish gold-seekers had made a stand here against natives whom
they had roused against them by oppression. Or, perhaps, as
indicated by the cross, it had afforded refuge to the Mission
Fathers, those heroic souls who had faced the horrors of the
infernolike desert in their saintly efforts to convert its
fiendish inhabitants.
With the symbol of Christianity in his mind, Lane turned toward
the giant cactus, which he had heretofore regarded chiefly in the
aspect of a flagpole, and saw in its columnar trunk and opposing
branches a distinct resemblance to a cross. The plant was dead,
and dry as punk. Suddenly there flashed into his mind a hideous
suggestion. More cruel than even the Romans, the inventors of
crucifixion, the Apaches are wont to bind their captives to these
dead cacti, which supply at once scourging thorns, binding stake,
and consuming fuel, and, kindling a fire at the top, leave it to
burn slowly down to the victim, and, long before it despatches
him, to twist his body and limbs into what appear to the Apache
sense of humor to be exquisitely ludicrous contortions.
With his mind occupied by these horrible apprehensions, Lane
looked at the rattlesnake upon the sahuaro whose struggles by
this time had diminished to a movement of the tail.
"Poor old rattler," he thought. "I wish I could spare a
cartridge to put you out of your misery."
At length, as Lane peered up the mountainside, he saw a bush on a
ledge a little to the left of the trail quiver, as if stirred by
a passing breath of wind. He aimed his Winchester through a
crack in the wall at the spot, and when a moment later an Apache
rose up from the ground and leaped toward the shelter of a rock
below, Lane fired, and the savage fell crumpling. Like an echo
of the explosion a rifle on the right spoke, and a bullet struck
the rock by Lane's head. He marked the spot whence the shot
came, and quickly ran to another part of the wall. From here he
saw the edge of an Indian's thigh exposed by the side of the
boulder he had noted. CRACK! went Lane's Winchester; the leg was
suddenly withdrawn, and at the same moment a head appeared on the
other side of the rock, as if the Indian had stretched himself
involuntarily. CRACK! again, and Lane had got his man.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|