of sheltering rocks.  Intent only on them and still wishing to attract their attention, he swung his broad-brimmed hat, waving it off to the left, but with no apparent result.  Confound them!  Were they sound asleep?  Could they never be made to see?  Poor Dick was able now only to strike a feeble canter, so utterly was he used up, and just when Wing, looking only to the front, was thinking that he might as well discontinue the spur and let his poor horse rest, they labored forth from the sheltering shade full upon the tawny, sunlit sand.  Then, while the sergeant’s eyes were temporarily blinded by the glare, there came from the rocks to his right a sudden flash and report.  He felt at the same instant a stinging pang in the leg.  He had just time to grasp his own carbine and to attempt to swing off when the second shot echoed loudly from the rocks.  He felt poor Dick start and swerve; he felt him going headlong, and the next thing he knew he was vainly striving to peer into the face of the evening sun from over the quivering body of his faithful friend, unable for the moment to see the faintest sign of an enemy, and then the blood came welling through the little hole in his worn cavalry trousers, midway between the hip-bone and the knee, and he knew he had received a serious, perhaps a desperate wound.

For the moment, therefore, he could do nothing more but look for succor.  A glance down the desert told him his fellows were at last rudely awakened.  True to the practice of the craft, the instant fire was opened from the rocks each man had put spurs to his horse and dashed away to a safer distance with such speed as was possible with their jaded mounts, each trooper warily scanning the dark line of the foot-hills in search of the foe and striving as he rode to unfasten the flap that held his carbine, in the fashion of the day, athwart the pommel of his saddle; and now, circling farther out upon the plain, in wide sweep, with carbines advanced, they were hastening to the succor of their comrade.  Presently one of their number suddenly drew rein, halted his startled “broncho,” aimed to the left of the horse’s head and fired, then, cramming a cartridge into the chamber, came riding farther.  The others, too, followed suit, shooting at some object apparently among the rocks in front of the sergeant’s position.  One of the men threw himself from his saddle, and kneeling on the sands drove two or three shots at long range.  Eager to add his own fire to theirs, Wing pulled his hat-brim over his eyes, threw forward the barrel over the now stilled carcass of poor Dick, and peered eagerly up the ravine in search of some foe at whom to aim.  Blindly he searched for dusky Apache skulking from rock to rock; there was no moving thing in sight.  But what was this,—­this object that suddenly shot out from behind a little ledge and, turning sharply to the left, went clattering into the depths of a dark and frowning gorge?  Could he believe his eyes?  Did the Chiricahuas,