Their scanty store of
rations was gone entirely. Sergeant Carmody and his alternate watchers
were worn out from lack of sleep when, in the darkness of midnight, a
low hail in their own tongue came softly through the dead
silence,--the voice of Lieutenant Blakely cautioning, "Don't fire,
Wren. It's the Bugologist," and in another moment he and his orderly
afoot, in worn Apache moccasins, but equipped with crammed haversacks
and ammunition belts, were being welcomed by the besieged. There was
little of the emotional and nothing of the melodramatic about it. It
was, if anything, rather commonplace. Wren was flighty and disposed to
give orders for an immediate attack in force on the enemy's works, to
which the sergeant, his lips trembling just a bit, responded with
prompt salute: "Very good, sir, just as quick as the men can finish
supper. Loot'nent Blakely's compliments, sir, and he'll be ready in
ten minutes," for Blakely and his man, seeing instantly the condition
of things, had freshened the little fire and begun unloading supplies.
Solalay, their Indian guide, after piloting them through the woodland
southwest of Snow Lake, had pointed out the canon, bidden them follow
it and, partly in the sign language, partly in Spanish, partly in the
few Apache terms that Blakely had learned during his agency days,
managed to make them understand that Wren was to be found some five
miles further on, and that most of the besieging Tontos were on the
heights above or in the canon below.
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