out of one end of the cut, but were
soon brought back and herded together in the sagebrush by the moccasin
boys of the Yellow-Eyes.

In maddened bewilderment the Fire Eater leaped upon the flat plain, made
insulting gestures and shouted defiant words in his own language at the
flashing guns. Above the turmoil could be heard the harsh, jerky voice
which came from the bowels of the warrior rather than from his lips. No
bullet found him as he stepped back into cover, more composed than when
he had gone out. The nervous thrill had expanded itself in the speech.
To his own mind the Fire Eater was a dead man; his medicine had
departed; his spiritual protection was gone. He recognized that to
live his few remaining hours was all--he had only to do the mere act of
dying; and that he would do as his demon nature willed it. His last sun
was looking down upon him.

The Yellow-Eyes knew their quarry well. They recognized of old the
difference between an Indian cooped up in a hole in a flat plain and one
mounted on a swift war-pony, with a free start, and the whole plain for
a race-track. They advanced with all caution--crawling, sneaking through
sage and tufted grass. Occasionally as an Indian exposed himself to
fire, a swift bullet from a beaver-man's long rifle crashed into his
head, rolling him back with oozing brains. The slugs and ounce balls
slapped into the dirt from the muskets of the creole _engages_ and they
were losing warrior after warrior. By cutting the dirt with their knives
the Indians dug into the banks, avoiding a fire which raked the washout;
and by throwing the dirt up on either side they protected their heads as
they raised to fire.

A man walking over the flats by midday would have seen nothing but
feeding ponies and occasional flashes of fire close to the grass, but a
flying raven would have gloated over a scene of many future gorges.
It would have seen many lying on their backs in the ditch--lying quite
still and gazing up at his wheeling flight with stony gaze.

The white men had no means of knowing how successful had been the
rifle-fire and they hesitated to crawl closer. Each party in turn
taunted the other in unknown tongues, but they well knew that the
strange voices carried fearful insult from the loud defiance of the
intonation. The gray bears or the mountain cats were as merciful as
any there. As the sun started on its downward course the nature of the
Gothic blood asserted itself. The white men