ess of him; and to help
you out in visualizing his partner, you are hereby reminded that the
gray dust of those Arizona roads used to settle into the deep lines of
the mule-skinners' faces beyond all possibility of removal; the sun
and wind used to flay their skins to a deep, dull red.

Whisky Bill and Jim Price with an escort of two cavalry troopers were
driving two wagons of Thomas Venable's, loaded with hay for Camp
Grant, when fifty Apaches ambushed them in the canyon. Price was killed
at the first volley and one of the soldiers was badly wounded in the
face.

The three living men took refuge under the wagons and stood off
several rushes of the savages. Then the soldier who had been wounded
got a second bullet and made up his mind he would be of more use in
trying to seek help at Camp Grant than in staying where he was. He
managed to creep off into the brush before the Indians got sight of
him.

Now Whisky Bill and the other soldier settled down to make an
afternoon's fight of it, and for three hours they held off the
savages. Half a dozen naked bodies lay limp among the rocks to bear
witness to the old teamster's marksmanship when a ball drilled him
through the chest and he sank back dying.

There was only one chance now for the remaining trooper, and he took
it. With his seven-shot rifle he dived out from under the wagon and
gained the nearest clump of brush. At once the Apaches sallied forth
from their cover in full cry after him.

Heedless of their bullets, he halted long enough to face about and
slay the foremost of his pursuers; then ran on to a pile of rocks,
where he made another brief stand, only to leave the place as his
enemies hesitated before his fire. Thus he fled, stopping to shoot
when those behind him were coming too close for comfort; and
eventually they gave up the chase.

In Camp Grant, where he arrived at sundown, he found his fellow-trooper,
badly wounded but expected to live, under care of the post surgeon. And
the detachment who went out after the renegades buried the two teamsters
beside the road where they had died fighting.

One against many; that was the rule in these grim fights. But the
affair which took place on the Cienega de Souz, fifteen miles above
the old San Simon stage-station and twenty-five miles from Port Bowie,
tops them all when it comes to long odds. On October 21, 1871, one
sick man battled for his life against sixty-odd Apaches and--won out.

R. M. Gilbert was