, too, the mounted warriors went careering about, dashing
at full speed towards the woods, as though determined to charge, but
invariably veering off to right or left as they came within three
hundred yards. Of course, there was no direction from which the bullets
did not come whizzing into the timber, and men were more likely to be
hit in the back than elsewhere,--one of the many disheartening features
of such warfare. Almost every moment somebody _was_ hit, though at the
time it could not be seen or known, as all were too busy with what was
in their front to look around. Once in a while, too, some lucky shot
would send an Indian pony to his knees out on the prairie, or a warrior
would drop and be borne off by a ducking, dodging trio of his fellows.
Then there would be a shout of triumph from the timber, answering yells
of rage and defiance from the foe; but finally, after nearly an hour of
such savage work, the Cheyennes seemed to give it up. Then came another
respite, another "taking of stock."

One of the scouts, one who had refused to try and ride through to the
regiment, was shot dead, and lay on his face among the trees. So, too,
were two more of the men, while six were wounded, and Wayne himself had
a flesh wound in the thigh. The hot sun of noonday was pouring down, and
matters looked ugly.

"Do you know how much ammunition we have left?" asked Mr. Ray, in a low
tone, of the commanding officer about an hour later.

"No," said Wayne, looking anxiously in his face.

"Not twelve rounds to the man."

CHAPTER XIV.

RAY'S RIDE FOR LIFE

Darkness has settled down in the shadowy Wyoming valley. By the light of
a tiny fire under the bank some twenty forms can be seen stretched upon
the sand,--they are wounded soldiers. A little distance away are nine
others, shrouded in blankets: they are the dead. Huddled in confused and
cowering group are a few score horses, many of them sprawled upon the
sand motionless; others occasionally struggle to rise or plunge about in
their misery. Crouching among the timber, vigilant but weary, dispersed
in big, irregular circle around the beleaguered bivouac, some sixty
soldiers are still on the active list. All around them, vigilant and
vengeful, lurk the Cheyennes. Every now and then the bark as of a coyote
is heard,--a yelping, querulous cry,--and it is answered far across the
valley or down the stream. There is no moon; the darkness is intense,
though the starlight is cl