"Good-bye!" he cried to his comrade. Dick struggled to his feet and threw himself on Jack to force him down behind the barricade. For a moment both men were in full view of the Apaches. A volley crashed up and across the canon. Both men fell locked in each other's arms, then lay still. The Indians awaited the result of the shots. The strange actions of the men might be only a ruse. Silence would mean they were victorious. Both Jack and Dick had been struck. Jack was the first to recover. Reviving, he struggled out of the clasp of his unconscious comrade. "He's hit bad," he said to himself, "and so am I. I'll fight it out to the last, and if they charge they won't get us alive." Dick groaned and opened his eyes. "I'm hit hard," he whispered, "you'd better go." Jack was on his hands and knees crawling toward his rifle when his comrade spoke. "Listen," he replied. "We're both fixed to stay now, so lie close. I'll hold 'em off as long as I can, but if they rush, save one shot for yourself--you understand?" "Yes, not alive!" answered Dick weakly, his voice thin and his face ashen white with pain. Jack reached the boulder, and with an effort raised himself and peered over the edge. "They're getting ready. Will you take my hand now?" he asked, as he held it out to Dick. "I sure will," his wounded comrade cried, grasping it with all the strength he possessed. Jack smiled in his happiness. He felt he had made his peace with all men and at last was ready to meet death with a clear conscience. "It looks like the end. But we'll fight for it." The shrill war-whoops of the Indians, the first sound they had made in the fight, showed they felt confident of overcoming the men in the next rush. Jack and Dick had abandoned the rifles and were now fighting the Indians off with their revolvers as they closed in on them. Hardie had halted the night before at Clearwater Spring. Finding it but mud and alkali, he had merely rested his men and horses for a few hours, and then pushed on for Apache Spring, where he hoped to strike water. The troop rode through the early morning hours, full of grit, and keen to overtake the Apaches, traces of whose flight were becoming more evident every mile. All weariness had vanished. Even the horses felt there was something in the air and answered the bugle-call with fresh vigor and go. A scout first heard the firing at the spring. He did not wait to investigate, knowing he could do nothing alone. The volleys, the difference in the reports of the rifles, proved to him that one party was firing Springfields and the other Winchesters. He knew that the Apaches were being held off. Galloping back to the troop, he reported the fight to its commander. The bugles sounded. The horses were forced into a gallop. With clashing accouterments and jingling spurs and bits, they dashed across the mesa to the head of the trail. Here they met Slim Hoover and his posse coming from an opposite direction.