leaped to his shoulder, the rocks rang with its
report, and one of the two swarthy forms he saw among the boulders
tumbled over out of sight; but even as he threw back his piece to
reload, a rattling volley greeted him, the carbine dropped to the
ground, a strange, numbed sensation had seized his shoulder, and his
right arm, shattered by a rifle-bullet, hung dangling by the flesh,
while the blood gushed forth in a torrent.

Defenceless, he sprang back to the edge; there was nothing for it now
but to run until he could meet his men. Well he knew they would be
tearing up the mountain to the rescue. Could he hold out till then?
Behind him with shout and yells came the Apaches, arrow and bullet
whistling over his head; before him lay the steep descent,--jagged
rocks, thick, tangled bushes: it was a desperate chance; but he tried
it, leaping from rock to rock, holding his helpless arm in his left
hand; then his foot slipped: he plunged heavily forward; quickly the
nerves threw out their signal for support to the muscles of the
shattered member, but its work was done, its usefulness destroyed.
Missing its support, he plunged heavily forward, and went crashing down
among the rocks eight or ten feet below, cutting a jagged gash in his
forehead, while the blood rained down into his eyes and blinded him; but
he struggled up and on a few yards more; then another fall, and,
well-nigh senseless, utterly exhausted, he lay groping for his
revolver,--it had fallen from its case. Then--all was over.

Not yet; not yet. His ear catches the sound of a voice he knows well,--a
rich, ringing, Hibernian voice it is: "Lieutenant, _lieutenant_!
_Where_ are ye?" and he has strength enough to call, "This way,
sergeant, this way," and in another moment O'Grady, with blended anguish
and gratitude in his face, is bending over him. "Oh, thank God you're not
kilt, sir!" (for when excited O'Grady _would_ relapse into the brogue);
"but are ye much hurt?"

"Badly, sergeant, since I can't fight another round."

"Then put your arm round my neck, sir," and in a second the little
Patlander has him on his brawny back. But with only one arm by which to
steady himself, the other hanging loose, the torture is inexpressible,
for O'Grady is now bounding down the hill, leaping like a goat from rock
to rock, while the Apaches with savage yells come tearing after them.
Twice, pausing, O'Grady lays his lieutenant down in the shelter of some
large boulder, and, faci