Bob Hampton of Placer | Page 3

That was all; yet the experienced frontiersmen
knew that eyes as keen as those of any wild animal of the jungle were
watching murderously their slightest movement.
Wyman, now reclining in agony against the base of the overhanging
cliff, directed the movements of his little command calmly and with
sober military judgment. Little by little, under protection of the rifles of
the three civilians, the uninjured infantrymen crept cautiously about,
rolling loosened bowlders forward into position, until they finally
succeeded in thus erecting a rude barricade between them and the
enemy. The wounded who could be reached were laboriously drawn
back within this improvised shelter, and when the black shadows of the
night finally shut down, all remaining alive were once more clustered
together, the injured lying moaning and ghastly beneath the
overhanging shelf of rock, and the girl, who possessed all the patient
stoicism of frontier training, resting in silence, her widely opened eyes
on those far-off stars peeping above the brink of the chasm, her head
pillowed on old Gillis's knee.

Few details of those long hours of waiting ever came forth from that
black canyon of death. Many of the men sorely wounded, all wearied,
powder-stained, faint with hunger, and parched with thirst, they simply
fought out to the bitter ending their desperate struggle against despair.
The towering, overhanging wall at their back assured protection from
above, but upon the opposite cliff summit, and easily within rifle range,
the cunning foe early discovered lodgment, and from that safe
vantage-point poured down a merciless fire, causing each man to
crouch lower behind his protecting bowlder. No motion could be
ventured without its checking bullet, yet hour after hour the besieged
held their ground, and with ever-ready rifles left more than one reckless
brave dead among the rocks. The longed-for night came dark and early
at the bottom of that narrow cleft, while hardly so much as a faint star
twinkled in the little slit of sky overhead. The cunning besiegers crept
closer through the enshrouding gloom, and taunted their entrapped
victims with savage cries and threats of coming torture, but no warrior
among them proved sufficiently bold to rush in and slay. Why should
they? Easier, safer far, to rest secure behind their shelters, and wait in
patience until the little band had fired its last shot. Now they skulked
timorously, but then they might walk upright and glut their fiendish lust
for blood.
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