tore and house burst into action.

They were crack shots, the most of those Adobe Walls men; had the best
of rifles, and plenty of cartridges. Down lunged ponies, sending their
riders sprawling; the white men's guns spoke rapidly, the noise of shot
and shout and yell was deafening; the charging line broke, careering
right and left and straight through. On scoured the shrieking squads,
but leaving dead and wounded ponies and limping, scurrying warriors.

But this was not the end. Anybody might know that. The Adobe Walls
men busied themselves; some stayed on watch, others enlarged their
loop-holes or desperately knocked holes through the thick adobe, for
better shooting. The windows were too few; the whole rear of the store
itself was blank. The door had been battered, and now sacks of flour
were piled against it, to strengthen it.

Indians, dismounted, skulked everywhere, taking pot-shots at the
loop-holes, and forcing the men to keep close under cover.

Some seventy-five yards behind the store was a large stack of
buffalo-hides. From the saloon Scout Billy Dixon saw an Indian pony
standing beside it, and might just glimpse a Comanche head-dress,
around the corner of the stack.

He aimed at the head-dress and fired. The headdress disappeared, but
the Indian must have dodged to the other corner, for Rath's house
opened fire on him, and he dodged back again. Scout Dixon met him with
another bullet. The Indian found himself in a hot place. His pony was
killed. He had to stay or run; so he stayed, and cowered out of sight,
waiting for a chance to shoot or to escape.

But that would not do. He was a danger to the premises, and should be
routed. Scout Dixon guessed at his location, behind the hides; drew
quick bead, and let drive. The heavy ball from the Sharp's
buffalo-gun--a fifty-caliber bullet, on top of one hundred and twenty
grains of powder--tore clear through the stack. Out dived the
Comanche, jumping like a jack-rabbit and yelping like a coyote at every
leap, and gained cover in a bunch of grass.

"Bet I scorched him," Billy Dixon chuckled.

Other guns were still cracking, trying to clear the skulkers and to
hold off the main body. The warriors were concealed behind
buffalo-hide stacks, in sheds, and lying flat upon the prairie. The
firing never slackened; there were rushes and retreats. The scene,
here on the dry plains of northern Texas, reminded one of the sieges of
settlers' forts in Ke