the second Indian was in the act of entering, with the others close
behind him.

It was no time for hesitation, for that meant death. Starr shoved his
Winchester in front, so that the muzzle projected over the swell, took
deliberate aim at Bent Arm, and let fly.

The distance was short, the rancher was an excellent marksman, and the
bullet bored its way through the breast of the painted miscreant, who
hardly knew what hurt him. With a screech, he threw up his arms, one
grasping his gun, and toppled from the back of his pony, falling with a
loud splash into the water, where for the moment he disappeared under
the surface.

George Starr was never cooler in his life. He was fighting not only for
his own existence, but for those who were dearer to him than that
existence. He knew the mercilessness of the red men near at hand, and he
was equally merciless to them.

This proceeding, as may be supposed, caused consternation for a moment
among the advancing Sioux. The warrior immediately behind the leader
stopped his pony abruptly, stared at the tuft of grass above which the
faint puff of smoke was curling; and then, fearful of a second shot
aimed at himself, whirled his animal about and sent him at one bound up
the bank of the stream, where his companions, no less dismayed than he,
threw themselves forward on the backs of their horses, to shield
themselves from the aim of the rancher.

It was at this crisis that George Starr committed two blunders which
threatened the very doom he was trying to escape. One of those errors,
however, did credit to his heart, if not to his head.

Having opened the ball, he should have pushed things unmercifully. He
was well aware of the venom of those red men, and, with his magazine
rifle at command, he ought to have kept up an unremitting fire until he
had tumbled several more to the ground, and driven the survivors beyond
sight and the power of harm. It was his reluctance to perpetrate such
slaughter, and the weak hope that he had already accomplished that
result, that stayed his hand, at the moment when he should have steeled
his feelings against sympathy. The other equally serious mistake was in
staying where he was, prone on the ground, with a watchful eye on the
marauders. He saw, when it was too late, that he should have dashed back
to his pony, and leaped into the saddle and ridden with his wife, in all
haste, for the refuge a mile away. Whether that would have proven a
refuge or n