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Page 7
"Two shots to an Indian is expensive," thought the prospector,
"otherwise this game of tip-jack would be very interesting."
There was a cry in the Apache tongue, and suddenly nine
half-naked bodies arose from behind rocks and bushes extending in
an irregular crescent above the fort, and rushed forward ten,
fifteen, and even twenty, yards to the next cover. Lane did not
count number or distance at the time, but he figured these out in
his next period of waiting from the photograph flashed on his
subconscious mind. At the time of the rush he was otherwise
occupied. CRACK! CRACK! and two of the Indians fell dead in
mid-career. CRACK! and a third crawled, wounded, to the cover he
had almost safely attained. CRACK! and an eagle-feather in the
head of the fourth Indian shot at was cut off at the stem, and
fell forward on the rock behind which its wearer had dropped just
in time to save his life. There was an answering volley from the
rifles of the remaining Apaches, which was directed against the
lookout of loose stones from which the prospector's fire had
come. One of the bullets penetrated the opening and plowed a
furrow through Lane's scalp, toppling him to his knees. He
scrambled quickly to his feet, and, hastily pressing his long
hair back from his forehead, to stanch the bleeding wound, sought
the protection the middle lookout. He congratulated himself.
"Lucky for me they didn't follow the first rush immediately with
a second. Now I know to wait for their signal. Six, and
possibly seven of them, are left, and they will storm my works in
two more attempts. Here they come!"
The call again sounded. Six Apaches leaped forward, and from the
rock that concealed the wounded warrior, a shot rang out in
advance of the first discharge from Lane's Winchester. The
Indian's bullet scored the top of the turret, and filled the eyes
of the man behind it with powdered stone. The prospector,
already dazed by his wound, fired wildly, and missed his mark.
Quickly recovering himself, he fired again and again, severely
wounding two Apaches. These lay clawing the ground within twenty
yards of the wall. The four remaining Indians were safely
concealed at the same distance, protected no less by the
fortification than by the loose boulders behind which they
crouched for the final spring. Lane realized the fact that his
next shots, to be effective, must be at a downward angle, and to
fire them he must expose himself.
"This is my finish," he thought to himself. "Better be killed
instantly than tortured. I hope all four will hit me. Good-by,
Jinny"--CRACK! went his rifle. "Good-by, Nance"--CRACK! again.
At the two shots, surmising that the prospector had shot himself
and his horse, the Apaches did not wait for the signal, but
sprang forward and climbed upon the wall before Lane had had time
to mount it. Two of them he shot as they leaped down within the
enclosure. As he reversed his Winchester to kill himself with
the last cartridge, he noted that the two remaining Apaches had
dropped their rifles and were leaping upon him to take him alive.
He brought his clubbed weapon down upon the head of one of them,
crushing his skull. At the same instant Lane was borne to the
ground by the other Apache, who, seizing him by the throat, began
throttling him into insensibility. In desperation, Lane
bethought himself of the cliff, and, by a mighty effort, whirled
over upon his captor toward the precipice. The ground sloped
slightly in that direction, and the combatants rolled over and
over to the very edge of the cliff, where the Indian, for the
first time realizing that the prospector's purpose was to hurl
both of them to destruction, loosened his hold upon the
prospector's throat that he might use his hands to brace himself
against the otherwise inevitable plunge into the valley below. In
an instant Lane's hands were at the Indian's throat, and in
another turn he was uppermost, and kneeling upon his foe at the
very verge of the precipice.
Both combatants were now thoroughly exhausted. Lane concentrated
all his remaining strength in throttling the savage. But, just
as the tense form beneath him grew lax with evident
unconsciousness, and head fell limply back, extending over the
edge of cliff, his own head was jerked violently backward by a
noose cast around his lacerated neck.
When Lane recovered consciousness he found himself lying on his
back, bound hand and foot by a lariat, and looking up into a
grinning face that he recognized.
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