ordering
off the Indians right and left, and emphasizing his order with his boot
toes. Mac's twelve-year-old son, taking the cue from his father,
proceeded to deliver a vicious kick at a slowly-moving, blanketed form,
and the very next instant was screaming for help, flat on his back among
a swarm of Indian boys. All in a second the little savage had flashed
out of his blanket like lightning from a black cloud, and, grappling,
had hurled McPhail junior to earth. The agent made a furious lunge to
the rescue of his first-born, and the squaws and young girls scattered
shrieking at his charge. Startled and excited, the horses of Cranston's
wagon whirled sharply around, nearly capsizing the vehicle. Other horses
followed suit despite the efforts of their drivers, and in less than a
moment all the young braves on the opposite side came lashing their
ponies at mad gallop around the long rectangle just as McPhail
reappeared on the platform, bringing captive a furiously struggling
Indian boy screaming with rage and yelling for help. In less than that
moment too, it seemed, Percy Davies had leaped his horse over the
breast-high barrier and spurred to the heads of Cranston's team, seizing
the reins of the near horse. "Come right on," he shouted to the driver.
"Let them follow me." Out through the surging, scurrying crowd he guided
them to the edge of the road, then, pointing to the cantonment, called
to the driver, "Home with you, quick!" And with hardly a glance at the
grateful occupants, whirling his horse about, he burst his way back
again through the excited crowd until he found himself at the edge of
the platform. Already a dozen Indians were furiously demanding the
release of the prisoner. Little McPhail had scudded for home; Mira's
white face had disappeared from her window. Some of the guard had darted
into the corral for their arms, others, unarmed, had pressed to the
support of the agent. Before Davies could reach him four warriors were
out of their blankets and high-pommelled saddles, and had hurled
themselves on McPhail. "Rescue! Help!" he screamed, with ashen face,
releasing the Indian boy and vainly striving to draw his revolver. Away
sped the escaped captive, darting between the legs of struggling braves,
sheltered by the robes of hurrying squaws; away, right, left, anywhere,
everywhere, scattered the blanketed, jabbering groups, leaving on the
scene of action only the agent, the quickly rallying guard, and upward
of