came, and quickly ran to another part of the wall. From here he
saw the edge of an Indian's thigh exposed by the side of the
boulder he had noted. CRACK! went Lane's Winchester; the leg was
suddenly withdrawn, and at the same moment a head appeared on the
other side of the rock, as if the Indian had stretched himself
involuntarily. CRACK! again, and Lane had got his man.

"Two shots to an Indian is expensive," thought the prospector,
"otherwise this game of tip-jack would be very interesting."

There was a cry in the Apache tongue, and suddenly nine
half-naked bodies arose from behind rocks and bushes extending in
an irregular crescent above the fort, and rushed forward ten,
fifteen, and even twenty, yards to the next cover. Lane did not
count number or distance at the time, but he figured these out in
his next period of waiting from the photograph flashed on his
subconscious mind. At the time of the rush he was otherwise
occupied. CRACK! CRACK! and two of the Indians fell dead in
mid-career. CRACK! and a third crawled, wounded, to the cover he
had almost safely attained. CRACK! and an eagle-feather in the
head of the fourth Indian shot at was cut off at the stem, and
fell forward on the rock behind which its wearer had dropped just
in time to save his life. There was an answering volley from the
rifles of the remaining Apaches, which was directed against the
lookout of loose stones from which the prospector's fire had
come. One of the bullets penetrated the opening and plowed a
furrow through Lane's scalp, toppling him to his knees. He
scrambled quickly to his feet, and, hastily pressing his long
hair back from his forehead, to stanch the bleeding wound, sought
the protection the middle lookout. He congratulated himself.