Looking into the well, he discovered McGill clinging to the sides as best he could with fingers and nails. It was but a moment’s work to throw him a line and bring him out, as sorry and dejected-looking a scarecrow as one could imagine. Strange to relate, it was all that Jim could do to keep McGill from going back into the well for his cherished briar, the loss of which seemed to worry him greatly. We found the Scotsman in a very bad temper, complaining bitterly of the loss of his pipe, which he told us he was smoking at the time of his misfortune. We received a hearty welcome from Jim and his wife. The latter was busy soothing their ten-months-old baby to sleep. There they lived, in that little one-room house, eating, sleeping, and cooking in the same apartment. [Illustration: “SHOT-GUN JIM.” _From a Photograph._] I began to speculate as to where we tired travellers would find a place to lay our heads. The house was a solid adobe, without windows. In the doorway hung a frame, on which was fastened a strip of canvas in lieu of a door. A hearty meal was prepared by Mrs. Smith, after which we were invited to go out and bring in our beds. On our return we found that Mrs. Smith and the babe were already in the huge bed in the corner. Jim was preparing to follow, and we were invited to spread our blankets on the floor, which, like the Bonita store, was mother earth. Our sleep was far more restful than on the previous night. At an early hour we were awakened by Smith, who seemed to be worried about something. I followed him to the door of the house and discovered that he was holding a whispered conversation with a stranger, a young fellow of about eighteen years. As soon as I approached they stopped speaking and I was introduced to the young man, whose name was given as “Hank.” Suddenly Smith spoke:-- “We might as well tell ’em about it, Hank,” he said. “They’ve got to know it sooner or later. Tain’t safe to get out of this place now. Besides, your horse is used up.” I glanced in the direction indicated, and saw a horse covered in lather, with drooping head and general dejected appearance. I knew he must have had fearful riding to be in this condition. “Well, you tell ’em, Jim,” replied Hank. “I reckon we’re here, all of us, to stay awhile.” “I can’t afford to remain, Mr. Smith,” I said, thinking that the wrecked wagon might be the reason for the conversation. “If the outfit will hold together I think we had better go on as soon as possible.” Smith looked at me with pitying eyes. “You may never leave this place at all,” he returned, gravely. “This young man is the only survivor of a massacre, about ten miles from here. ‘Apache Kid’ and his band are, perhaps, at this very moment close to our gates.” Instinctively I glanced at the gates, and noticed for the first time that heavy timbers were propped against them.