For an hour Billy neither saw nor heard any sign of the enemy, though several times he raised his hat above the breastwork upon the muzzle of his carbine to draw their fire.
It was mid-afternoon when the sound of distant rifle fire came faintly to the ears of the two men from somewhere far below them.
“The boys must be comin’,” whispered Eddie Shorter hopefully.
For half an hour the firing continued and then silence again fell upon the mountains. Eddie began to wander mentally. He talked much of Kansas and his old home, and many times he begged for water.
“Buck up, kid,” said Billy; “the boys’ll be along in a minute now an’ then we’ll get you all the water you want.”
But the boys did not come. Billy was standing up now, stretching his legs, and searching up and down the canyon for Indians. He was wondering if he could chance making a break for the valley where they stood some slight chance of meeting with their companions, and even as he considered the matter seriously there came a staccato report and Billy Byrne fell forward in a heap.
“God!” cried Eddie. “They got him now, they got him.”
Byrne stirred and struggled to rise.
“Like’ll they got me,” he said, and staggered to his knees.
Over the breastwork he saw a half-dozen Indians running rapidly toward the shelter—he saw them in a haze of red that was caused not by blood but by anger. With an oath Billy Byrne leaped to his feet. From his knees up his whole body was exposed to the enemy; but Billy cared not. He was in a berserker rage. Whipping his carbine to his shoulder he let drive at the advancing Indians who were now beyond hope of cover. They must come on or be shot down where they were, so they came on, yelling like devils and stopping momentarily to fire upon the rash white man who stood so perfect a target before them.
But their haste spoiled their marksmanship. The bullets zinged and zipped against the rocky little fortress, they nicked Billy’s shirt and trousers and hat, and all the while he stood there pumping lead into his assailants—not hysterically; but with the cool deliberation of a butcher slaughtering beeves.
One by one the Pimans dropped until but a single Indian rushed frantically upon the white man, and then the last of the assailants lunged forward across the breastwork with a bullet from Billy’s carbine through his forehead.
Eddie Shorter had raised himself painfully upon an elbow that he might witness the battle, and when it was over he sank back, the blood welling from between his set teeth.
Billy turned to look at him when the last of the Pimans was disposed of, and seeing his condition kneeled beside him and took his head in the hollow of an arm.
“You orter lie still,” he cautioned the Kansan. “Tain’t good for you to move around much.”
“It was worth it,” whispered Eddie. “Say, but that was some scrap. You got your nerve standin’ up there against the bunch of ’em; but if you hadn’t they’d have rushed us and some of ’em would a-got in.”
“Funny the boys don’t come,” said Billy.
“Yes,” replied Eddie, with a sigh; “it’s milkin’ time now, an’ I figgered on goin’ to Shawnee this evenin’. Them’s nice cookies, maw. I—”
Billy Byrne was bending low to catch his feeble words, and when the voice trailed out into nothingness he lowered the tousled red head to the hard earth and turned away.
Could it be that the thing which glistened on the eyelid of the toughest guy on the West Side was a tear?
The afternoon waned and night came, but it brought to Billy Byrne neither renewed attack nor succor. The bullet which had dropped him momentarily had but creased his forehead. Aside from the fact that he was blood covered from the wound it had inconvenienced him in no way, and now that darkness had fallen he commenced to plan upon leaving the shelter.
First he transferred Eddie’s ammunition to his own person, and such valuables and trinkets as he thought “maw” might be glad to have, then he removed the breechblock from Eddie’s carbine and stuck it in his pocket that the weapon might be valueless to the Indians when they found it.
“Sorry I can’t bury you old man,” was Billy’s parting comment, as he climbed over the breastwork and melted into the night.
Billy Byrne moved cautiously through the darkness, and he moved not in the direction of escape and safety but directly up the canyon in the way that the village of the Pimans lay.
Soon he heard the sound of voices and shortly after saw the light of cook fires playing upon bronzed faces and upon the fronts of low huts. Some women were moaning and wailing. Billy guessed that they mourned for those whom his bullets had found earlier in the day. In the darkness of the night, far up among the rough, forbidding mountains it was all very weird and uncanny.
Billy crept closer to the village. Shelter was abundant. He saw no sign of sentry and wondered why they should be so lax in the face of almost certain attack. Then it occurred to him that possibly the firing he and Eddie had heard earlier in the day far down among the foothills might have meant the extermination of the Americans from El Orobo.
“Well, I’ll be next then,” mused Billy, and wormed closer to the huts. His eyes were on the alert every instant, as were his ears; but no sign of that which he sought rewarded his keenest observation.
Until midnight he lay in concealment and all that time the mourners continued their dismal wailing. Then, one by one, they entered their huts, and silence reigned within the village.
Billy crept closer. He eyed each hut with longing, wondering gaze. Which could it be? How could he
