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Defenceless, he sprang back to the edge; there was nothing for it now but to run until he could meet his men. Well he knew they would be tearing up the mountain to the rescue. Could he hold out till then? Behind him with shout and yells came the Apaches, arrow and bullet whistling over his head; before him lay the steep descent,–jagged rocks, thick, tangled bushes: it was a desperate chance; but he tried it, leaping from rock to rock, holding his helpless arm in his left hand; then his foot slipped: he plunged heavily forward; quickly the nerves threw out their signal for support to the muscles of the shattered member, but its work was done, its usefulness destroyed. Missing its support, he plunged heavily forward, and went crashing down among the rocks eight or ten feet below, cutting a jagged gash in his forehead, while the blood rained down into his eyes and blinded him; but he struggled up and on a few yards more; then another fall, and, well-nigh senseless, utterly exhausted, he lay groping for his revolver,–it had fallen from its case. Then–all was over.

Not yet; not yet. His ear catches the sound of a voice he knows well,–a rich, ringing, Hibernian voice it is: “Lieutenant, lieutenant! Where are ye?” and he has strength enough to call, “This way, sergeant, this way,” and in another moment O’Grady, with blended anguish and gratitude in his face, is bending over him. “Oh, thank God you’re not kilt, sir!” (for when excited O’Grady would relapse into the brogue); “but are ye much hurt?”

“Badly, sergeant, since I can’t fight another round.”

“Then put your arm round my neck, sir,” and in a second the little Patlander has him on his brawny back. But with only one arm by which to steady himself, the other hanging loose, the torture is inexpressible, for O’Grady is now bounding down the hill, leaping like a goat from rock to rock, while the Apaches with savage yells come tearing after them. Twice, pausing, O’Grady lays his lieutenant down in the shelter of some large boulder, and, facing about, sends shot after shot up the hill, checking the pursuit and driving the cowardly footpads to cover. Once he gives vent to a genuine Kilkenny “hurroo” as a tall Apache drops his rifle and plunges head foremost among the rocks with his hands convulsively clasped to his breast. Then the sergeant once more picks up his wounded comrade, despite pleas, orders, or imprecations, and rushes on.

“I cannot stand it, O’Grady. Go and save yourself. You must do it. I order you to do it.” Every instant the shots and arrows whiz closer, but the sergeant never winces, and at last, panting, breathless, having carried his chief full three hundred yards down the rugged slope, he gives out entirely, but with a gasp of delight points down among the trees:

“Here come the boys, sir.”

Another moment, and the soldiers are rushing up the rocks beside them, their carbines ringing like merry music through the frosty air, and the Apaches are scattering in every direction.

“Old man, are you much hurt?” is the whispered inquiry his brother-officer can barely gasp for want of breath, and, reassured by the faint grin on Mr. Billings’s face, and a barely audible “Arm busted,–that’s all; pitch in and use them up,” he pushes on with his men.

In ten minutes the affair is ended. The Indians have been swept away like chaff; the field and the wounded they have abandoned are in the hands of the troopers; the young commander’s life is saved; and then, and for long after, the hero of the day is Buxton’s bete noire, “the worst man in the troop.”