Part 4 (2/2)
”Well, then,” commented the Sergeant, his eyes gleaming, ”we 've simply got to fight it out alone, I reckon, and hang on to our last shots.
What do you make of those reds?”
The three men stared for some time at the distant group over their rifles, in silence.
”They ain't all Arapahoes, that 's certain,” said Moylan at last.
”Some of 'em are Cheyennes. I 've seen that chief before--it's Roman Nose.”
”The big buck humped up on the roan?”
”That's the one, and he is a bad actor; saw him once over at Fort Kearney two years ago. Had a council there. Say!” in surprise, ”ain't that an Ogalla Sioux war bonnet bobbin' there to the right, Sergeant?”
Hamlin studied the distant feathered head-dress indicated, shading his eyes with one hand.
”I reckon maybe it is, Moylan,” he acknowledged at last gravely.
”Those fellows have evidently got together; we're going to have the biggest sc.r.a.p this summer the old army has had yet. Looks as though it was going to begin right here--and now. See there! The dance is on, boys; there they come; they will try it on foot this time.”
He tested his rifle, resting one knee on the seat; Moylan pushed the barrel of his Winchester out through the ragged hole in the back of the coach, and the little Mexican lay flat, his eyes on the level with the window-casing. The girl alone remained motionless, crouched on the floor, her white face uplifted.
The entire field stretching to the river was clear to the view, the short, dry buffalo-gra.s.s offering no concealment. To the right of the coach, some fifty feet away, was the only depression, a shallow gully leading down from the bluff, but this slight advantage was unavailable.
The sun had already dropped from view, and the gathering twilight distorted the figures, making them almost grotesque in their savagery.
Yet they could be clearly distinguished, stealing silently forward, guns in hand, spreading out in a wide half-circle, obedient to the gestures of Roman Nose, who, still mounted upon his pony, was traversing the river bank, his every motion outlined against the dull gleam of water behind him. From the black depths of the coach the three men watched in almost breathless silence, gripping their weapons, fascinated, determined not to waste a shot. Gonzales, under the strain, uttered a fierce Spanish curse, but Hamlin crushed his arm between iron fingers.
”Keep still, you fool!” he muttered, never glancing around. ”Let your gun talk!”
The a.s.sailants came creeping on, snakes rather than men, appearing less and less human in the increasing shadows. Twice the Sergeant lifted his Henry, sighting along the brown barrel, lowering the weapon again in doubt of the distance. He was conscious of exultation, of a swifter pulse of the heart, yet his nerves were like steel, his grip steady.
Only a dim fleeting memory of the girl, half hidden in the darkness behind, gave him uneasiness--he could not turn and look into her eyes.
Roman Nose was advancing now at the centre of that creeping half circle, a hulking figure perched on his pony's back, yet well out of rifle range. He spread his hands apart, clasping a blanket, looking like a great bird flapping its wings, and the ground in front flamed, the red flare splitting the gray gloom. The speeding bullets crashed through the leather of the coach, splintering the wood; the Mexican rolled to the floor, uttering one inhuman cry, and lay motionless; a great volume of black smoke wavered in the still air.
”Walt! Wait until they get to their feet!” Hamlin cried eagerly. ”Ah!
there they come--now unlimber.”
He saw only those black, indistinct figures, leaping out of the smoke, converging on the coach, their naked arms uplifted, their voices mingling in savage yells. Like lightning he worked his rifle, heart throbbing to the excitement, oblivious to all else; almost without realization he heard the deeper bellow of Moylan's Winchester, the sharp bark of a revolver at his very ear. Gonzales was all right, then! Good! He never thought of the girl, never saw her grip the pistol from the Mexican's dead hand, and crawl white-faced, over his body, to that front seat. All he really knew was that those devils were coming, leaping, crowding through the smoke wreathes; he saw them stumble, and rise again; he saw one leap into the air, and then crash face down; he saw them break, circling to right and left, crouching as they ran. Two reached the stage--only two! One pitched forward, a revolver bullet between his eyes, his head wedged in the spokes of the wheel; the other Hamlin struck with emptied rifle-barrel as his red hand gripped the door, sending him sprawling back into the dirt. It was all the work of a minute, an awful minute, intense, breathless--then silence, the smoke drifting away, the dark night hiding the skulking runners.
CHAPTER VI
THE CONDITION IN THE COACH
Mechanically--scarcely conscious of the action--the Sergeant slipped fresh cartridges into the hot rifle chamber, swept the tumbled hair out of his eyes with his s.h.i.+rt sleeve, and stared into the night. He could hardly comprehend yet that the affair was ended, the second attack repulsed. It was like a delirium of fever; he almost expected to see those motionless bodies outstretched on the gra.s.s spring up, yelling defiance. Then he gripped himself firmly, realizing the truth--it was over with for the present; away off there in the haze obscuring the river bank those indistinct black smudges were fleeing savages, their voices wailing through the night. Just in front, formless, huddled where they had fallen, were the bodies of dead and dying, smitten ponies and half-naked men. He drew a deep breath through clinched teeth, endeavoring to distinguish his comrades.
The interior of the coach was black, and soundless, except for some one's swift, excited breathing. As he extended his cramped leg to the floor he touched a motionless body. Not until then had he realized the possibility of death also within. He felt downward with one hand, his nerves suddenly throbbing, and his finger touched a cold face--the Mexican. It must have been that last volley, for he could distinctly recall the sharp bark of Gonzales' revolver between his own shots.
”The little devil,” he muttered soberly. ”It was a squarer death than he deserved. He was a game little c.o.c.k.”
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