ut'nant out
alive. Shure they're all around him now."

Then bounding down the gorge he finds McGuffey kneeling at the point.

"They're coming, Barney," whispers the boy, all eager and tremulous
with excitement, and pointing down between the vertical walls. "Look!"
he says.

Gazing ahead to the next bend, Costigan can see Moreno and his Yankee
_compadre_ crouching behind their shelter, their carbines levelled,
their attitude betokening intense excitement and suspense. It is
evident the enemy are within view.

"I'll have one shot at 'em, bedad, to pay for the dozen their brother
blackguards let drive at me," mutters Costigan. "Come on, you; it's
but a step." And, forgetful for the moment of his orders in his
eagerness for fight, the Irishman runs down the canon, leaps the
swirling brook just as he reaches the point, and, obedient to the
warning hand held out by their bandit ally, drops on his knees at the
bend, McGuffey close at his heels. Off go their hats. Those broad
brims would catch an Indian eye even in that gloom.

"How many are there coming?" he whispers.

Moreno puts his finger on his lips, then throws out his hand, four
fingers extended.

"One apiece then, be jabers! Now, Little Mac, you're to take the
second from the right,--their right, I mean,--and doan't you miss him
or I'll break every bone in your skin."

"Hist!"

Down they go upon their faces, then, Indian-like, they crawl a few
feet farther where there is a little ledge. The canon widens below;
the light is stronger there, and, bending double, throwing quick
glances at one another, then from sheer force of Indian habit shading
their eyes with their brown hands as they peer to the front;
exchanging noiseless signals; creeping like cats from rock to rock;
leaping without faintest sound of the moccasined foot across the
bubbling waters, four swarthy scamps are coming stealthily on. Two
others are just appearing around the next bend beyond.

"Ready, boys? They're near enough now. Cover the two leaders! Drop the
first two anyhow!"

Breathless silence, thumping hearts one instant longer, then the chasm
bellows with the loud reports. The four guns are fired almost as one.
One half-naked wretch leaps high in air and falls, face downward, dead
as a nail. Another whirls about, bounds a few yards along the
brook-side, and then goes splashing into a shallow pool, where he lies
writhing. The two farthest down the canon have slipped back behind the
roc