Bits of granite flew in a sharp dust about him. The place was utterly untenable. Niltci looked for a better lair, noted a little hollow in the crags and then jumped out and exposed himself to draw their fire for an instant. He heard shot after shot whipping out from where Sid lay, felt the terrific smash of Mausers all around him, then he picked up Big John and raced with him for cover. A sharp touch seared his arm. He felt it grow paralyzed in spite of him and it let the cowman drop violently against the rough scoriated boulders. A groan came from Big John, showing that he still lived, then the Navaho flung himself into the lair and rolled the great limp body in after him. But this could not last! It was as hot a corner as man ever got into. Sooner or later flankers from the guerrillas above would find a position from which it could be fired into, and then nothing could save them. Niltci raised his voice in a low Navaho’s death chant, watching the rocks above him from a crevice in his lair, rifle poised for instant use. He needed help badly. Finally he sent out the word for it in a ringing call that would be understood by the Apaches, if any were near. It would be upon their honor to respond. An occasional desultory shot now came from Sid, up there on the lava apron. Above on the mountain was silence, sinister, and foreboding. The Mexicans were creeping carefully, silently downward toward him. Presently there would be a rush of overwhelming numbers--then death! Niltci waited, finger on trigger, eyes alert. A slight sound and the rolling of a stone came from somewhere above, but he could see nothing without exposing himself to he knew not what danger. It had been Big John who had rescued _him_ from his own kinsmen, during those fanatical disturbances caused by the Black Panther of the Navaho, and Niltci would never desert him now! Coolly, resignedly, he awaited that final rush that would be the end of them both. A rapid movement and the flinging of a body down behind some rocks sounded above him, right close now. Sid’s rifle sang out but its bullet was too late. Relentlessly they were closing in! A low groan sounded below Niltci. He glanced back out of the corner of his eye and saw that Big John’s eyes were open. His face was livid, drawn and gray, but he was turning feebly on his side and fumbling at the big revolver strapped to his thigh. “Watch yoreself--Injun--I’m gyardin’--yore rear,” muttered the cowman hoarsely.