Twice during that long night volunteers sought vainly to pierce those lines of savage watchers.  A long wailing cry of agony from out the thick darkness told the fate of their first messenger, while Casey, of the “X L,” crept slowly, painfully back, with an Indian bullet embedded deep in his shoulder.  Just before the coming of dawn, Hampton, without uttering a word, calmly turned up the collar of his tightly buttoned coat, so as better to conceal the white collar he wore, gripped his revolver between his teeth, and crept like some wriggling snake among the black rocks and through the dense underbrush in search after water.  By some miracle of divine mercy he was permitted to pass unscathed, and came crawling back, a dozen hastily filled canteens dangling across his shoulders.  It was like nectar to those parched, feverish throats; but of food barely a mouthful apiece remained in the haversacks.

The second day dragged onward, its hours bringing no change for the better, no relief, no slightest ray of hope.  The hot sun scorched them pitilessly, and two of the wounded died delirious.  From dawn to dark there came no slackening of the savage watchfulness which held the survivors helpless behind their coverts.  The merest uplifting of a head, the slightest movement of a hand, was sufficient to demonstrate how sharp were those savage eyes.  No white man in the short half-circle dared to waste a single shot now; all realized that their stock of ammunition was becoming fearfully scant, yet those scheming devils continually baited them to draw their fire.

Another long black night followed, during which, for an hour or so in turn, the weary defenders slept, tossing uneasily, and disturbed by fearful dreams.  Then gray and solemn, amid the lingering shadows of darkness, dawned the third dread day of unequal conflict.  All understood that it was destined to be their last on this earth unless help came.  It seemed utterly hopeless to protract the struggle, yet they held on grimly, patiently, half-delirious from hunger and thirst, gazing into each other’s haggard faces, almost without recognition, every man at his post.  Then it was that old Gillis received his death-wound, and the solemn, fateful whisper ran from lip to lip along the scattered line that only five cartridges remained.

For two days Wyman had scarcely stirred from where he lay bolstered against the rock.  Sometimes he became delirious from fever, uttering incoherent phrases, or swearing in pitiful weakness.  Again he would partially arouse to his old sense of soldierly duty, and assume intelligent command.  Now he twisted painfully about upon his side, and, with clouded eyes, sought to discern what man was lying next him.  The face was hidden so that all he could clearly distinguish was the fact that this man was not clothed as a soldier.

“Is that you, Hampton?” he questioned, his voice barely audible.

The person thus addressed, who was lying flat upon his back, gazing silently upward at the rocky front of the cliff, turned cautiously over upon his elbow before venturing reply.