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Page 79
"Go," he cried, "or I'll stand up and let 'em get me."
"No, we can hold them off," begged Dick, firing as he spoke.
Jack's hour had struck. It was all so supremely simple. There
were no waving flags, no cheering comrades. He was only one of
two men in the desert, dirty, grimy, and sweaty; his mouth dry
and parched, his eyes stinging from powder-fumes, his hands numb
from the effects of rapid firing. His mind worked automatically;
he seemed to be only an onlooker. The man who first fought off
the Apaches and who was now to offer himself as a sacrifice was
only one of two Jack Paysons, a replica of his conscious self.
Swiftly Jack Payson arose and faced the Indians.
"Good-bye!" he cried to his comrade.
Dick struggled to his feet and threw himself on Jack to force him
down behind the barricade. For a moment both men were in full
view of the Apaches. A volley crashed up and across the canon.
Both men fell locked in each other's arms, then lay still.
The Indians awaited the result of the shots. The strange actions
of the men might be only a ruse. Silence would mean they were
victorious.
Both Jack and Dick had been struck. Jack was the first to
recover. Reviving, he struggled out of the clasp of his
unconscious comrade. "He's hit bad," he said to himself, "and so
am I. I'll fight it out to the last, and if they charge they
won't get us alive."
Dick groaned and opened his eyes.
"I'm hit hard," he whispered, "you'd better go."
Jack was on his hands and knees crawling toward his rifle when
his comrade spoke.
"Listen," he replied. "We're both fixed to stay now, so lie
close. I'll hold 'em off as long as I can, but if they rush,
save one shot for yourself--you understand?"
"Yes, not alive!" answered Dick weakly, his voice thin and his
face ashen white with pain.
Jack reached the boulder, and with an effort raised himself and
peered over the edge.
"They're getting ready. Will you take my hand now?" he asked, as
he held it out to Dick.
"I sure will," his wounded comrade cried, grasping it with all
the strength he possessed.
Jack smiled in his happiness. He felt he had made his peace with
all men and at last was ready to meet death with a clear
conscience.
"It looks like the end. But we'll fight for it."
The shrill war-whoops of the Indians, the first sound they had
made in the fight, showed they felt confident of overcoming the
men in the next rush.
Jack and Dick had abandoned the rifles and were now fighting the
Indians off with their revolvers as they closed in on them.
Hardie had halted the night before at Clearwater Spring. Finding
it but mud and alkali, he had merely rested his men and horses
for a few hours, and then pushed on for Apache Spring, where he
hoped to strike water. The troop rode through the early morning
hours, full of grit, and keen to overtake the Apaches, traces of
whose flight were becoming more evident every mile. All
weariness had vanished. Even the horses felt there was something
in the air and answered the bugle-call with fresh vigor and go.
A scout first heard the firing at the spring. He did not wait to
investigate, knowing he could do nothing alone. The volleys, the
difference in the reports of the rifles, proved to him that one
party was firing Springfields and the other Winchesters. He knew
that the Apaches were being held off. Galloping back to the
troop, he reported the fight to its commander.
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