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Page 77
From the hillside a rifle-shot rang out. The ball struck Dick in
the leg. He fell, and lay motionless.
Pulling his revolver, Jack stooped and ran under the overhanging
ledge, peering about to see where the shot had come from. He
raised his gun to fire, when a volley of rifle-shots rang through
the canon, the bullets kicking up little spurts of dust about him
and chipping edges off the rocks. Jack dropped on his knees and
crept to his rifle, clipping his revolver back into his holster.
Crouching behind a rock with his rifle to his shoulder, he waited
for the attackers to show themselves.
Experience on the plains taught them that the fight would be a
slow one, unless the Apaches sought only to divert attention for
the time being to cover their flight southward. After the one
shot, which struck Dick, and the volley directed at Jack, not a
rifle had been fired. Peering over the boulder, Jack could see
nothing.
The Lava Beds danced before his eyes in the swelter of the
glaring sunshine. Far off the snow-capped mountains mockingly
reared their peaks into the intense blue of the heavens. Since
the attackers were covered with alkali-dust from the long ride, a
color which would merge into the desert floor when a man lay
prone, detection of any movement was doubly difficult. Behind
any rock and in any clump of sage-brush might lie an assailant.
Dick had fallen near the spring. He struggled back to
consciousness, to find his left leg numb and useless. When the
ball struck him he felt only a sharp pinch. His fainting was
caused by a shock to his weakened body, but not from fear or
pain. With the return to his senses came a horrible, burning
thirst, and a horrible sinking sensation in the pit of his
stomach. He lay breathing heavily until he got a grip on
himself. Then he tore the bandanna handkerchief from his neck
and bound up the wound, winding the bandage as tightly as his
strength permitted to check the blood-flow.
"What is it?" asked Jack, over his shoulder.
"Indians--the 'Paches are out. I'm hit," gasped Dick. He
crawled painfully and slowly to Jack's side, dragging his leg
after him. He pulled with him his rifle, which he picked up as
he passed from the spot where it had fallen in his first wild
rush for water.
"The soldiers told me at Fort Grant about the 'Paches being out,"
Jack whispered hoarsely. "I thought they'd crossed the border
into Mexico."
Seeing a spasm of pain sweep over Dick's face, he asked: "Are you
hurt bad?"
"I don't know. My left leg is numb."
Both men spoke scarcely above a whisper, fearing to betray their
positions by the sound of their voices. Dick lay on his back
gathering strength to ward off with rifle and revolver the rush
which would come sooner or later.
Jack caught the sound of a falling stone. Peering cautiously
over the rock, he saw an Indian creep up a draw toward them.
Throwing his rifle to his shoulder, he took quick aim and fired.
The Apache jumped to his feet, ran a few steps forward, and fell
sprawling. A convulsive shudder shook him, and he lay still.
"I got him!" cried Jack exultantly, as he saw the result of the
shot.
But the exposure of his head and shoulders above their barricade
had drawn forth more shots from other members of the band.
The bullets struck near the two men, showing that the Apaches had
the range.
Dick's wound was bleeding freely, but the shock of the blow had
passed away, and his strength returned. Drawing his revolver, he
crept closer to Jack, crying: "I can shoot some."
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