The bullet struck the
falling rock, and sent a shower of stinging splinters into my face. I
turned and fled.
With the discharge of the Indian's rifle Sergeant Cunningham and
Corporal Frank opened a rapid fusillade with the revolvers, which
successfully covered my retreat to the cabin; but we knew that our
last chance at stone-dropping was past.
Several terribly long hours had crept past since we saw Vic turn the
butte on her errand to the valleys. Judging by the time it had taken
the Navajos to bore a tunnel under their log and undermine the first
trigging-stone, we estimated that two more hours must pass before the
four obstructions we had placed in their way could be removed, unless
they took some more speedy method.
It was quite nine miles to camp, and the dog could easily reach it in
about an hour. If she had arrived, help should by this time be fairly
on the way; but if she had been killed by the besiegers before she
reached the north end of the butte, or had been torn in pieces by the
wolves!
Should the log once reach our door, we could not hope to do more than
make the price of our lives dear to the enemy.
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