filled the air, and the
thunder of hoofs shook the ground. Over the west ridge, half a mile
away, five hundred Indians came swooping like a hurricane down upon us.
And we numbered, altogether, twenty-nine. I can see that charge to-day:
the blinding, yellow sky, the ridge melting into a cloud of tawny dust,
the surge of ponies with their riders bending low above them; fronting
them, our little group of cavalrymen formed into a hollow square, on
foot, about our mounts; the Indians riding, in a wide circle around us,
with blankets flapping, and streamer-decked lances waving high. And as I
see, I hear again that wild, unearthly shriek and taunting yell and
fiendish laughter. From every point the riflle-balls poured in
upon us, while out of buffalo wallow and from behind each prairie-dog
hillock a surge of arrows from unmounted Indians swept up against us. I
had been on battle-fields before, but this was a circle out of hell set
'round us there. And every man of of knew, as we sent back ball for
ball, what capture here would mean for us before the merciful hand of
death would seal our eyes.

Suddenly, as we moved forward, the frantic circle halted and a hundred
braves came dashing in a fierce charge upon us. Their leader, mounted on
a great, white horse, rode daringly ahead, calling his men to follow
him, and taunting us with cowardice. He spoke good English, and his
voice rang clear and strong above the din of that strange struggle.
Straight on he came, without once looking back, a revolver in each hand,
firing as he rode. A volley from our carbines made his fellows stagger,
then waver, break, and run. Not so the rider of the splendid white
horse, who dared us to strike him down as he dashed full at us.

"Come on, you coward Clarenden boys, and I'll fight you both. I've
waited all these years to do it. I dare you. Oh, I dare you!"

It was Charlie Bent.

Nine balls from Clarenden carbines flew at him. Beverly and I were
listed among the cleverest shots in Kansas, but not one ball brought
harm to the daring outlaw. A score of bullets sung about his insolent
face, but his seemed a charmed life. Right on he forged, over our men,
and through the square to the Indian's circle on the other side, his
mocking laughter ringing as he rode. A bloody scalp hung from his spear,
and, turning 'round just out of range of our fire, shaking his trophy
high, he shouted back:

"We got all of the balance of your men. We'll get you yet."