and shadows.
Straight before him ran a wall, almost to the
lip of the drop, and above its crumbling crest he could make out a square,
tower-shaped structure. Even the pile of stuff against which he had been
sheltering was man made. He had heard of these strange cliff castles, but this
was the first time he had seen one.
"All right." Herndon swung in, the last to cross. “Take cover along the outer ruins and thin
out. Pick a place that'll put your sights down there."
He pointed a little to the left. Ritchie
squirmed forward. But he never reached the place of his own choice, for the
Sergeant rounded and pushed him down in an angle of the broken wall.
“Loosen a couple of these bricks,"
Herndon ordered in a half whisper. ''That'll make you a loophole. And stay
put-right here!"
Ritchie unslung the carbine and pulled out his
knife. He had to keep his fingers bare while he dug and twisted at the
powdering adobe. From time to time he stopped and stuffed his hands inside coat
and shirt to thaw out the warning numbness. But he had the first brick loose
and was easing it out of its age-old setting when Herndon returned to drop down
beside him.
The Sergeant was picking away, too. But he
moved with astonishing speed to catch a second brick which almost dropped out
of Ritchie's blue, raw-cold hands.
“Put those in—next to your hide and keep them
there! This is no time to get frostbite!"
Reluctantly Ritchie obeyed, shuddering all
through his body as the icy flesh slapped against the warmth over his ribs. At
least the knife wind of the mountain slopes did not come here. If they could
only have a fire now—why, it wouldn't be half bad!
Herndon put down another brick.
"Take a look down there. And keep
awake!"
Keep awake—that was good! As if anyone could
sleep now! Ritchie hunched up a little and looked down through their improvised
loophole. Some distance below, a wide ledge, which might almost have been the
top of a small mesa, jutted far out. Fires burned there, and the curious heaps
of dried brush covered with ragged blankets that were the lodges of the Apaches
made lumps not unlike the untidy nests of pack rats. Blanketed squatty
figures—probably the squaws, he decided— were moving
around the fires. He could see only one red-turbaned warrior, a lookout mounted
on a rock to watch the valley below.
"He's your target." Herndon
indicated the lookout. "When the time comes, see that you freeze on him.
And shooting downhill is tricky. If you're not sure of the range, fire at that
line of rocks—the ricocheting bullets are sometimes as good as straight shots.
Ah—"
His voice faded. There was a sudden stir of
activity on the ledge of the camp. Three warriors, conspicuous against the
general drabness because of their fiery headcloths, were trotting up the
incline to the camp. The sound of voices came up through the clear air, though
not clearly enough to distinguish words. Tuttle was right; the raiding party
was coming home.
The next hour was both the most miserable and
the most exciting Ritchie had ever spent. Although cold seeped into his bones
and his body ached with it, he dared not stir from his vantage point to ease
cramped limbs. He watched the raiders gather in by twos and threes.
That fire which had tantalized them since
their arrival with its fragrant smoke and promise of heat blazed higher, and
another smell came up with the smoke, the hot stench of too-well-roasted meat.
Ritchie swallowed. If he closed his eyes, he could almost visualize the roast
ham which had been the centerpiece at Aunt Emma's dinner on the
Straight before him ran a wall, almost to the
lip of the drop, and above its crumbling crest he could make out a square,
tower-shaped structure. Even the pile of stuff against which he had been
sheltering was man made. He had heard of these strange cliff castles, but this
was the first time he had seen one.
"All right." Herndon swung in, the last to cross. “Take cover along the outer ruins and thin
out. Pick a place that'll put your sights down there."
He pointed a little to the left. Ritchie
squirmed forward. But he never reached the place of his own choice, for the
Sergeant rounded and pushed him down in an angle of the broken wall.
“Loosen a couple of these bricks,"
Herndon ordered in a half whisper. ''That'll make you a loophole. And stay
put-right here!"
Ritchie unslung the carbine and pulled out his
knife. He had to keep his fingers bare while he dug and twisted at the
powdering adobe. From time to time he stopped and stuffed his hands inside coat
and shirt to thaw out the warning numbness. But he had the first brick loose
and was easing it out of its age-old setting when Herndon returned to drop down
beside him.
The Sergeant was picking away, too. But he
moved with astonishing speed to catch a second brick which almost dropped out
of Ritchie's blue, raw-cold hands.
“Put those in—next to your hide and keep them
there! This is no time to get frostbite!"
Reluctantly Ritchie obeyed, shuddering all
through his body as the icy flesh slapped against the warmth over his ribs. At
least the knife wind of the mountain slopes did not come here. If they could
only have a fire now—why, it wouldn't be half bad!
Herndon put down another brick.
"Take a look down there. And keep
awake!"
Keep awake—that was good! As if anyone could
sleep now! Ritchie hunched up a little and looked down through their improvised
loophole. Some distance below, a wide ledge, which might almost have been the
top of a small mesa, jutted far out. Fires burned there, and the curious heaps
of dried brush covered with ragged blankets that were the lodges of the Apaches
made lumps not unlike the untidy nests of pack rats. Blanketed squatty
figures—probably the squaws, he decided— were moving
around the fires. He could see only one red-turbaned warrior, a lookout mounted
on a rock to watch the valley below.
"He's your target." Herndon
indicated the lookout. "When the time comes, see that you freeze on him.
And shooting downhill is tricky. If you're not sure of the range, fire at that
line of rocks—the ricocheting bullets are sometimes as good as straight shots.
Ah—"
His voice faded. There was a sudden stir of
activity on the ledge of the camp. Three warriors, conspicuous against the
general drabness because of their fiery headcloths, were trotting up the
incline to the camp. The sound of voices came up through the clear air, though
not clearly enough to distinguish words. Tuttle was right; the raiding party
was coming home.
The next hour was both the most miserable and
the most exciting Ritchie had ever spent. Although cold seeped into his bones
and his body ached with it, he dared not stir from his vantage point to ease
cramped limbs. He watched the raiders gather in by twos and threes.
That fire which had tantalized them since
their arrival with its fragrant smoke and promise of heat blazed higher, and
another smell came up with the smoke, the hot stench of too-well-roasted meat.
Ritchie swallowed. If he closed his eyes, he could almost visualize the roast
ham which had been the centerpiece at Aunt Emma's dinner on the
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