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Still they managed to keep the dozen at a wary distance, and even, they suspected, to hit some. This was the Indians’ game–to watch; to wait; to lie with infinite patience; to hitch nearer a yard, a foot, an inch even; and then to seize with the swiftness of the eagle’s swoop an opportunity which the smallest imprudence, fruit of weariness, might offer. One by one the precious cartridges spit, and fell from the breech-blocks empty and useless. And still the tufts of grass wavered a little nearer.

“I wish t’ hell, stranger, you-all hadn’t edged off south,” chattered Alfred. “We’d be nearer th’ Pierre trail.”

“I’m puttin’ in my spare wishin’ on them Injins,” shivered the other; “I sure hopes they aims to make a break pretty quick; I’m near froze.”

About two o’clock the sun came out and the wind died. Though its rays were feeble at that time of year, their contrast with the bleakness that had prevailed during the morning threw a perceptible warmth into the crouching men. Alfred succeeded, too, in wriggling a morsel of raw bacon from the pack, which the two men shared. But the cartridges were running very low.

“We establishes a dead-line,” suggested Alfred. “S’ long as they slinks beyond yonder greasewood, they lurks in safety. Plug ’em this side of her.”

“C’rrect,” agreed the stranger.

This brought them a season of comparative quiet. They even made out to smoke, and so were happy. Over near the hill the body of Indians had gone into camp and were taking it easy. The job of wiping out these troublesome whites had been sublet, and they wasted no further anxiety over the affair. This indifference irritated the outlaw exceedingly.

“Damn siwashes!” he grumbled.

“Look out!” warned Alfred.

The dead-line was overpassed. Swaying tufts of vegetation marked the rapid passage of eel-like bodies. The Indians had decided on an advance, being encouraged probably by the latter inaccuracy of the plainsmen’s fire. Besides, the day was waning. It was no cat-and-mouse game now; but a rush, like the other except that all but the last twenty or thirty yards would be made under cover. The besieged turned their attention to it. Over on the hill the bucks had arisen from their little fires of buffalo chips, and were watching. On the summit of the farther ridge rode silhouetted sentinels.

Alfred selected a tuft and fired just ahead of it. A crack at his side indicated that the stranger, too, had gone to work. It was a discouraging and nervous business. The shooter could never tell whether or not he had hit. The only thing he was sure of was that the line was wriggling nearer and nearer. He felt something as though he were shooting at a man with blank cartridges. This test of nerve was probably the most severe of the fight.

But it was successfully withstood. Alfred felt a degree of steadiness return to him with the excitement and the change of weather. The Winchester spat as carefully as before. Suddenly it could no longer be doubted that the line was beginning to hesitate. The outlaw saw it, too.

“Give it to ’em good!” he cried.

Both men shot, and then again.

The line wavered.

“Two more shots will stop ’em!” cried the road-agent, and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked against an empty chamber.

“I’m done!” he cried, hopelessly. His cartridges were gone.

Alfred laid his own Winchester on the ground, turned over on his back, and puffed a cloud of smoke straight up toward the sky.

“Me, too,” said he.

The cessation of the shooting had put an end to the Indians’ uncertainty. Another moment would bring them knowledge of the state of affairs.

“Don’t get much outen my scalp, anyway,” said Alfred, uncovering his bald head.

The sentinel on the distant ridge was riding his pony in short-looped circles and waving a blanket in a peculiar way above his head. From the grass nine Indians arose, stooped, and scuttled off like a covey of running quail. Over by the fires warriors were leaping on their ponies, and some were leading other ponies in the direction of the nine. An air of furtive but urgent haste characterised all these movements. Alfred lent an attentive ear.

“Seems a whole lot like a rescue,” he remarked, quietly. “I reckon th’ boys been followin’ of my trail.”

The stranger paused in the act of unhobbling the one remaining pony. In the distance, faintly, could be heard cheers and shots intended as encouragement.

“They’s comin’ on th’ jump,” said Alfred.

By this time the stranger had unfastened the horse.

“I reckon we quits,” said he, mounting; “I jest nat’rally takes this bronc, because I needs him more’n you do. So long. I may ‘s well confide that I’m feelin’ some glad jest now that them Injins comes along.”

And then his pony fell in a heap, and began to kick up dirt and to snort blood.

“I got another, so you just subside a lot,” commanded Alfred, recocking his six-shooter.

The stranger lay staring at him in astonishment.

“Thought you was busted on catridges!” he cried.

“You-all may as well know,” snapped Alfred, “that’s long as I’m an officer of this yere district, I’m a sheriff first and an Injin-fighter afterward.”

“What the hell!” wondered the road-agent, still in a daze.

“Them’s th’ two catridges that would have stopped ’em,” said Alfred.