Another shot came from above and Billy Byrne's
pony grunted and collapsed.
"Hell!" exclaimed Byrne. "We gotta get out of this," and
lifting his wounded comrade in his arms he ran for the shelter
of the bluff from the summit of which the snipers had fired
upon them. Close in, hugging the face of the perpendicular
wall of tumbled rock and earth, they were out of range of the
Indians; but Billy did not stop when he had reached temporary
safety. Farther up toward the direction in which lay the
village, and halfway up the side of the bluff Billy saw what he
took to be excellent shelter. Here the face of the bluff was less
steep and upon it lay a number of large bowlders, while others
protruded from the ground about them.
Toward these Billy made his way. The wounded man
across his shoulder was suffering indescribable agonies; but he
bit his lip and stifled the cries that each step his comrade took
seemed to wrench from him, lest he attract the enemy to their
position.
Above them all was silence, yet Billy knew that alert, red
foemen were creeping to the edge of the bluff in search of
their prey. If he could but reach the shelter of the bowlders
before the Pimans discovered them!
The minutes that were consumed in covering the hundred
yards seemed as many hours to Billy Byrne; but at last he
dragged the fainting cowboy between two large bowlders close
under the edge of the bluff and found himself in a little,
natural fortress, well adapted to defense.
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