Jim crept on hands and knees towards the wagon which we had placed against the wall. In a moment he had reached it, shot-gun in hand, and silently and slowly raised himself into it, gradually straightening out with his head and arms just above the wall. Then, quick as a flash, he took aim. There was a crash--or rather a double crash, for he had fired both barrels--an awful yell from the Indians, and he was speeding back to safety. [Illustration: “I FELT MYSELF BEING DRAGGED OVER.”] One savage, braver than the rest, took a quick shot at him. The bullet did no harm to Jim, but came near being fatal to me, for I had been so intent on watching him that I now found that I had unconsciously stepped into the open. Instead of bolting for shelter, I had but one thing in mind--to check up the account and see how many “good” Indians there were and how many bad ones. Consequently, in a moment--foolhardy as it may seem--I was on the wagon, peering over the wall, taking account of the dead and wounded at the gates. Although Jim’s shot-gun had done fearful execution, there were but two who appeared to be actually dead. Just then something struck me in the face, a hand grasped me from over the wall, and I felt myself being dragged over, into the arms of the “Apache Kid” himself! Several other savages were running to his assistance. All that I can recall is that I thought my last hour had come, and struck out blindly with my fists, clinging, as best I could, to the wall with my legs. I am not an experienced boxer, but I had the advantage over my assailant, for I was uppermost. Things seemed to be going badly with me, however, for I felt my hold on the wall gradually weakening. Just at that instant I heard a rush behind me. I was so done up that I could only think of more Indians, but in reality it was Levy, Hank, and Jim coming to the rescue. I was grasped from behind and felt that I should be pulled to pieces. I let out with my fists with renewed vigour, and landed such a fierce tattoo on the face of my captor that he involuntarily sought to protect his face with his hands, whereupon Levy, Hank, Jim, and I fell into a confused heap over the side of the wagon. It was a few minutes before they restored me to my senses, and I found myself with clothing half torn off, covered with dust, and generally bruised. My first words were:-- “Two killed, three wounded badly; net balance thirteen. That number is unlucky. We’ll win!” “What in the name of common sense are you talking about?” asked Bates, who was bending over me. “Well, there were twenty-three Indians when we started; we killed four at first shot, three at the second, and two at the third, besides wounding three beyond present help. That leaves thirteen, doesn’t it?” We were recalled to a sense of our peril by the sound of breaking timbers. The gates were being forced!