on and had replied with such
spirit and promptitude to the Apache attack that only at rare
intervals now is a shot necessary, except when for the purpose of
drawing the enemy and locating his position a hat is poked up on the
muzzle of a carbine. The assailants' fire, too, is still, but that, as
Drummond's men well know, means only "look out for other devilment."

Out on the eastward desert, still far over towards the other side, a
little party of Apaches is hurrying to join the fray. Two are riding.
Where got they their horses? The others--over half a dozen--come along
at their tireless jog-trot. It was this party that, seen but dimly at
first, gave rise to such ebullition of joy among the defenders and
defended. It was this party that, closely scanned through his
field-glass, occasioned Lieutenant Drummond's moan of distress. With
all his heart he had been hoping for the speedy coming of relief over
that very trail,--had counted on its reaching him during the day. He
was sure it could be nothing else when the corporal reported something
in sight, and so when he discovered the approaching party to be
Apaches no words could describe the measure of his disappointment and
dismay. Not for himself and his men; they were old hands and had a
fine position to defend. His thoughts are all for those in whose
behalf he has already made such gallant fight and for poor Wing, whose
feeble moaning every now and then reaches his ear.

At ten o'clock he is able through his glasses to distinctly make out
the number and character of the coming party. Nine Apaches, all
warriors, but one of them apparently wounded or disabled, for they
have to support him on the horse, and this it is that hampers their
advance and makes it slower. They are heading for the oasis at the
mouth of the canon. There they will leave their horses and their
wounded, and then come creeping up the winding gorge or crouching
among the bowlders from the east to join in the attack on the hated
pale-face. Drummond can have no doubt of that. New dispositions are
necessary.

"Stay where you are!" he shouts to his men. "You take charge up here,
Costigan; I want to post a man or two below at the bend." And down he
goes, sliding and scrambling until he reaches the edge of the brook.
Moreno, squatted against a rock, glances up at him appealingly.

"Senor Teniente, I pray you unloose me and let me help. The Apache is
our common enemy," he pleads.

An idea comes to Drummon