handled the reins of their own horses and those of the
lieutenant and men still held at the edge. It was an exciting moment.
Bruce had only a hundred yards to run before he could get under cover,
and there was no chance of their hitting him at that range, yet a puff
of smoke rose from the knoll, and a bullet, nearly spent, came tumbling
and singing up the turf, and the dashing warriors, yelling wildly,
applauded the shot. Bruce took matters coolly. Leaping behind the
shelter of the ledge, he reached for his carbine, and in a moment more,
as the pursuing Indians came lashing within long range, four seasoned
cavalry carbines, each with a keen eye at the sight and a steady finger
at the trip, were leveled on the coming foe. Dean's young heart beat
hard, it must be owned, for hitherto the Indians had been fighting in
retreat or on the defensive, while now they came as though confident of
success; but there was soldier exultation and something like savage joy
mingling with the thrill of excitement.

"There's more behind those beggars, sir," growled Conroy, a veteran at
Indian work, "but they'll sheer off when they get within three hundred
yards." On they came, shields and lances dangling, ponies on the keen
jump, feathers and pennons streaming on the wind. But, just as Conroy
said, no sooner was Bruce safely under cover and they felt themselves
drawing within dangerous range than, fan-like, they opened out to right
and left, and, yelling still like fiends, veered in wide circle from
their line of attack, and ducking over their ponies' shoulders, clinging
with one leg to the upright part of the cantle, they seemed to invite
the fire of their white foe--and got it. A daring fellow in the lead
came streaking slantwise across the front, as though aiming to pick up
the comrade lurking in the dip of the prairie-like slope, and Conroy's
carbine was the first to bark, followed almost instantly by Dean's. The
scurrying pony threw up his wall-eyed head and lashed with his feathered
tail, evidently hit, but not checked, for under the whip he rushed
gamely on until another bullet, whistling within a foot of his neck,
warned the red rider that he was far too close for safety, for with
halting gait the pony turned and labored off the field, and presently
was seen to be staggering. "Score one for our side," laughed the
Irishman, in glee. "Now's your time, sergeant."

But Bruce, reloading, was gazing sternly at the distant knoll. The other