in a pyramid of firewood ready to burst in flame at first touch of the
torch. Close at hand were the stacks of reserve fuel. "Never light
this until you know the Indians are raiding west of the Christobal,"
were his orders. But well he knew that once ignited it could be seen
for many a league. Here again he filled his faithful pipe and, moving
safe distance away, lighted its charge and tossed the match-stump
among the jagged rocks below. He saw the spark go sailing downward,
unwafted from its course by faintest breath of air. Then he heard
Pike's growl or something like it, and called to him to ask if he
heard Jackson. No answer. Sure that he had heard the gruff, though
inarticulate, voice of his comrade, he hailed again more loudly than
before, and still there came no reply. Surprised, he stepped quickly
back around the rocky point to where the tents lay under the
sheltering cliff, and came face to face with three dark, shadowy
forms, whose moccasined footsteps gave no sound, whose masked and
blackened faces defied recognition, whose cocked revolvers were
thrust into his very face before a lariat settled over his shoulders,
snapped into place, and, yelling for help when help was miles beyond
range of his ringing voice, Sergeant Wing was jerked violently to
earth, dragged into a tent, strapped to a cot, deftly gagged, and then
left to himself. An instant later the Picacho was lighted up with a
lurid, unearthly glare; the huge column of sparks went whirling and
hissing up on high, and, far and near, the great beacon was warning
all seers that the fierce Apache was out in force and raiding the Yuma
road.

Away out across the desert its red glare chased the Concord wagon
wherein, all unconscious of the danger signal, the sisters were now
chatting in low tone.