en thrust the barrels of their rifles through
the windows. The room was filled with smoke. During lulls in the
firing Gilbert heard the groaning of his companion; he heard the moans
change to the long, harsh death-rattle.

Some time during the noon-hour as he was standing at a loophole
shooting at a bunch of naked, frowzy-haired warriors who had appeared
in front of the building, an Apache brave who had stolen up behind the
adobe took careful aim through a broken window and got him in the
groin. But the sick man bound a handkerchief about the wound and
dragged himself from window to window, loading his rifle, firing
whenever a turban showed.

About midafternoon a venturesome group of warriors rushed the side
hill, gained the cabin wall and flung bundles of blazing fagots on the
roof. And within ten minutes the inside of the place was seething with
smoke-clouds; showers of sparks were dropping on the floor; flaming
shreds of brush were falling all about the sick man.

He groped his way to the bed and called Barnes. There was no answer.
He bent down and peered through the fumes at the other's face. Death
had taken his friend.

Gilbert loaded his rifle and a revolver. With a weapon in either hand
he flung open the door, and as he ran forth he saw in the hot
afternoon sunshine the shadow of an Indian who was hiding behind a
corner of the building. He leaped toward the place and as the warrior
was stepping forth shot him in the belly. Then he fled for the tulles
in the Cienega bottom.

Under a shower of bullets he gained the shelter of the reeds. And
during all the rest of that afternoon he lay there standing off the
Apaches. When darkness came he crawled away. All night and all the
next day he traveled on his hands and knees and finally reached the
hay camp of David Wood, sixteen miles away.

Wood dressed his wounds and sent word to Camp Bowie, and a troop of
cavalry chased the renegades into the Chiracahua Mountains, where they
eventually escaped, to make their way back to the reservation in time
for next ration-day.

These tales are authentic, and are but a few examples of the battles
which the old-timers fought during the years while they were winning
the Southwest away from the Indians. Some of those old-timers are
living to this day.

There is one of them dwelling in Dragoon Pass, where the mountains
come down to the lowlands like a huge promontory fronting the sea.
Uncle Billy Fourrs is his name; and if you