In front of their cavelike refuge, just under the shelving mass
overhead, heaped in a regular semicircle, a rude parapet of rocks gave
shelter to the troopers guarding the approaches. Little loopholes had
been left, three looking down and two northward up the dark and tortuous
rift. In each of these a loaded carbine lay in readiness. So well chosen
was the spot that for one hundred yards southeastward--down stream--the
narrow gorge was commanded by the fire of the defense, while above, for
nearly eighty, from wall to wall, the approach was similarly swept. No
rush was therefore possible on part of the Apaches without every
probability of their losing two or three of the foremost. The Apache
lacks the magnificent daring of the Sioux or Cheyenne. He is a fighter
from ambush; he risks nothing for glory's sake; he is a monarch in craft
and guile, but no hero in open battle. For nearly a week now, day after
day, the position of the defenders had been made almost terrible by the
fierce bombardment to which it had been subjected, of huge stones or
bowlders sent thundering down the almost precipitous walls, then
bounding from ledge to ledge, or glancing from solid, sloping face
diving, finally, with fearful crash into the rocky bed at the bottom,
sending a shower of fragments hurtling in every direction, oft
dislodging some section of parapet, yet never reaching the depths of the
cave. Add to this nerve-racking siege work the instant, spiteful flash
of barbed arrow or zip and crack of bullet when hat or hand of one of
the defenders was for a second exposed, and it is not difficult to fancy
the wear and tear on even the stoutest heart in the depleted little
band.
And still they set their watch and steeled their nerves, and in dogged
silence took their station as the pallid light grew roseate on the
cliffs above them. And with dull and wearied, yet wary, eyes, each
soldier scanned every projecting rock or point that could give shelter
to lurking foe, and all the time the brown muzzles of the carbines
were trained low along the stream bed. No shot could now be thrown
away at frowsy turban or flaunting rag along the cliffs. The rush was
the one thing they had to dread and drive back. It was God's mercy the
Apache dared not charge in the dark.
Lighter grew the deep gorge and lighter still, and soon in glorious
radiance the morning sunshine blazed on the lofty battlements far
overhead, and every moment the black shadow on the westward wall,
visible to the defense long rifle-shot southeastward, gave gradual way
before the rising day god, and from the broader open reaches beyond the
huge granite shoulder, around which wound the cañon, and from the
sun-kissed heights, a blessed warmth stole softly in, grateful
inexpressibly to their chilled and stiffened limbs. And still, despite
the growing hours, neither shot nor sign came from the accustomed haunts
of the surrounding foe. Six o'clock was marked by Blakely's watch. Six
o'clock and seven, and the low moan from the lips of poor young
Chalmers, or the rattle of some pebble dislodged by the foot of
crouching guardian, or some murmured word from man to man,--some word of
wonderment at the unlooked for lull in Apache siege operations,--was the
only sound to break the almost deathlike silence of the morning. There
was one other, far up among the stunted, shriveled pines and cedars that
jutted from the opposite heights. They could hear at intervals a weird,
mournful note, a single whistling call in dismal minor, but it brought
no new significance. Every day of their undesired and enforced sojourn,
every hour of the interminable day, that raven-like, hermit bird of the
Sierras had piped his unmelodious signal to some distant feathered
fellow, and sent a chill to the heart of more than one war-tried
soldier. There was never a man in Arizona wilds that did not hate the
sound of it. And yet, as eight o'clock was noted and still no sight or
sound of assailant came, Sergeant Carmody turned a wearied, aching eye
from his loophole and muttered to the officer crouching close beside
him: "I could wring the neck of the lot of those infernal cat crows,
sir, but I'll thank God if we hear no worse sound this day."