FullReads

“If they keep that up long enough, the wagon-train may hear ’em,” he said, finally. “Wisht we weren’t so far to nor-rard. There, it’s comin’!” he said, more excitedly.

The chief had paused, and, as the warriors came to him, they threw their ponies back on their haunches, and sat motionless. They turned, the ponies’ heads toward the two.

Alfred arose deliberately for a better look.

“Yes, that’s right,” he said to himself, “that’s old Lone Pine, sure thing. I reckon we-all’s got to make a good fight!”

The girl had sunk to the ground, and was shaking from head to foot. It is not nice to be shot at in the best of circumstances, but to be shot at by odds of thirty to one, and the thirty of an out-landish and terrifying species, is not nice at all. Miss Caldwell had gone to pieces badly, and Alfred looked grave. He thoughtfully drew from its holster his beautiful Colt’s with its ivory handle, and laid it on the grass. Then he blushed hot and cold, and looked at the girl doubtfully. A sudden movement in the group of savages, as the war-chief rode to the front, decided him.

“Miss Caldwell,” he said.

The girl shivered and moaned.

Alfred dropped to his knees and shook her shoulder roughly.

“Look up here,” he commanded. “We ain’t got but a minute.”

Composed a little by the firmness of his tone, she sat up. Her face had gone chalky, and her hair had partly fallen over her eyes.

“Now, listen to every word,” he said, rapidly. “Those Injins is goin’ to rush us in a minute. P’r’aps I can break them, but I don’t know. In that pistol there, I’ll always save two shots–understand?–it’s always loaded. If I see it’s all up, I’m a-goin’ to shoot you with one of ’em, and myself with the other.”

“Oh!” cried the girl, her eyes opening wildly. She was paying close enough attention now.

“And if they kill me first”–he reached forward and seized her wrist impressively–“if they kill me first, you must take that pistol and shoot yourself. Understand? Shoot yourself–in the head–here!”

He tapped his forehead with a stubby forefinger.

The girl shrank back in horror. Alfred snapped his teeth together and went on grimly.

“If they get hold of you,” he said, with solemnity, “they’ll first take off every stitch of your clothes, and when you’re quite naked they’ll stretch you out on the ground with a raw-hide to each of your arms and legs. And then they’ll drive a stake through the middle of your body into the ground–and leave you there–to die–slowly!”

And the girl believed him, because, incongruously enough, even through her terror she noticed that at this, the most immodest speech of his life, Alfred did not blush. She looked at the pistol lying on the turf with horrified fascination.

The group of Indians, which had up to now remained fully a thousand yards away, suddenly screeched and broke into a run directly toward the dog-town.

There is an indescribable rush in a charge of savages. The little ponies make their feet go so fast, the feathers and trappings of the warriors stream behind so frantically, the whole attitude of horse and man is so eager, that one gets an impression of fearful speed and resistless power. The horizon seems full of Indians.

As if this were not sufficiently terrifying, the air is throbbing with sound. Each Indian pops away for general results as he comes jumping along, and yells shrilly to show what a big warrior he is, while underneath it all is the hurried monotone of hoof-beats becoming ever louder, as the roar of an increasing rainstorm on the roof. It does not seem possible that anything can stop them.

Yet there is one thing that can stop them, if skilfully taken advantage of, and that is their lack of discipline. An Indian will fight hard when cornered, or when heated by lively resistance, but he hates to go into it in cold blood. As he nears the opposing rifle, this feeling gets stronger. So often a man with nerve enough to hold his fire, can break a fierce charge merely by waiting until it is within fifty yards or so, and then suddenly raising the muzzle of his gun. If he had gone to shooting at once, the affair would have become a combat, and the Indians would have ridden him down. As it is, each has had time to think. By the time the white man is ready to shoot, the suspense has done its work. Each savage knows that but one will fall, but, cold-blooded, he does not want to be that one; and, since in such disciplined fighters it is each for himself, he promptly ducks behind his mount and circles away to the right or the left. The whole band swoops and divides, like a flock of swift-winged terns on a windy day.