they came along the trail!"

Rendered thirsty by his exertions, Lane remembered the canteen in
the bisnaga, which he had forgotten among his other preparations
for defense. He cautiously reached his hand over the ledge, and
secured the precious vessel, but, as he was withdrawing it, PING!
came a bullet through the canteen, knocking it out of his hand.
As it fell clattering down the side of the ledge, he groaned:
"Damned good shooting! They've probably left their best
marksman below with the ponies. No hope for escape on that side.
Well, there's some consolation in the thought that they'll
undoubtedly finish me before I get too damned thirsty. Glad it
wasn't my hand."

Although the period he spent waiting for the attack was less than
an hour by his watch, it seemed to last so long that he had hopes
that the Rurales would appear in time to rescue him. His spirits
rose with the prospect. Looking about him at the walls, the
fireplace, and the red cross, he reflected: "I am not the first
man, or even the first white man, that has withstood an attack in
this place." In imagination he constructed the history of the
fort. Here, in ages remote, a tribe of Indians, defeated and
driven to the mountains had constructed an outpost against their
enemies of the plain, but these had captured the stronghold, and
fortified it against its former occupants. Later, a band of
Spanish gold-seekers had made a stand here against natives whom
they had roused against them by oppression. Or, perhaps, as
indicated by the cross, it had afforded refuge to the Mission
Fathers, those heroic souls who had faced the horrors of the
infernolike desert in their saintly efforts to convert its