Bob Hampton of Placer | Page 2

his
right arm in a rudely improvised sling made from a cartridge-belt, and
crept about sorely racked with pain, dragging a shattered limb behind
him. Then the taciturn Gillis gave sudden utterance to a sobbing cry,
and a burst of red spurted across his white beard as he reeled backward,
knocking the girl prostrate when he fell. Eight remained, one helpless,
one a mere lass of fifteen. It was the morning of the third day.
The beginning of the affair had burst upon them so suddenly that no
two in that stricken company would have told the same tale. None
among them had anticipated trouble; there were no rumors of Indian
war along the border, while every recognized hostile within the
territory had been duly reported as north of the Bear Water; not the
vaguest complaint had drifted into military headquarters for a month or
more. In all the fancied security of unquestioned peace these chance
travellers had slowly toiled along the steep trail leading toward the
foothills, beneath the hot rays of the afternoon sun, their thoughts afar,
their steps lagging and careless. Gillis and the girl, as well as the two
cattle-herders, were on horseback; the remainder soberly trudged
forward on foot, with guns slung to their shoulders. Wyman was

somewhat in advance, walking beside the stranger, the latter a man of
uncertain age, smoothly shaven, quietly dressed in garments
bespeaking an Eastern tailor, a bit grizzled of hair along the temples,
and possessing a pair of cool gray eyes. He had introduced himself by
the name of Hampton, but had volunteered no further information, nor
was it customary in that country to question impertinently. The others
of the little party straggled along as best suited themselves, all
semblance to the ordinary discipline of the service having been
abandoned.
Hampton, through the medium of easy conversation, early discovered
in the sergeant an intelligent mind, possessing some knowledge of
literature. They had been discussing books with rare enthusiasm, and
the former had drawn from the concealment of an inner pocket a
diminutive copy of "The Merchant of Venice," from which he was
reading aloud a disputed passage, when the faint trail they followed
suddenly dipped into the yawning mouth of a black canyon. It was a
narrow, gloomy, contracted gorge, a mere gash between those towering
hills shadowing its depths on either hand. A swift mountain stream,
noisy and clear as crystal, dashed from rock to rock close beside the
more northern wall, while the ill-defined pathway, strewn with
bowlders and guarded by underbrush, clung to the opposite side, where
low scrub trees partially obscured the view.
All was silent as death when they entered. Not so much as the flap of a
wing or the stir of a leaf roused suspicion, yet they had barely advanced
a short hundred paces when those apparently bare rocks in front flamed
red, the narrow defile echoed to wild screeches and became instantly
crowded with weird, leaping figures. It was like a plunge from heaven
into hell. Blaine and Endicott sank at the first fire; Watt, his face
picturing startled surprise, reeled from his saddle, clutching at the air,
his horse dashing madly forward and dragging him, head downward,
among the sharp rocks; while Wyman's stricken arm dripped blood.
Indeed, under that sudden shock, he fell, and was barely rescued by the
prompt action of the man beside him. Dropping the opened book, and
firing madly to left and right with a revolver which appeared to spring
into his hand as by magic, the latter coolly dragged the fainting soldier

across the more exposed space, until the two found partial security
among a mass of loosened rocks littering the base of the precipice. The
others who survived that first scorching discharge also raced toward
this same shelter, impelled thereto by the unerring instinct of border
fighting, and flinging themselves flat behind protecting bowlders,
began responding to the hot fire rained upon them.
Scattered and hurried as these first volleys were, they proved sufficient
to check the howling demons in the open. It has never been Indian
nature to face unprotected the aim of the white men, and those dark
figures, which only a moment before thronged the narrow gorge,
leaping crazily in the riot of apparent victory, suddenly melted from
sight, slinking down into leafy coverts beside the stream or into holes
among the rocks, like so many vanishing prairie-dogs. The fierce
yelpings died faintly away in distant echoes, while the hideous roar of
conflict diminished to the occasional sharp crackling of single rifles.
Now and then a sinewy brown arm might incautiously project across
the gleaming surface of a rock, or a mop of coarse black hair appear
above the edge of a gully, either incident resulting in a quick
interchange of fire.