pposed to be dead. From fifty yards they
poured in a smashing volley. Down crumpled Private Smith, in a heap.
Sergeant Woodall was shot through the side, John Harrington through the
hip, Peter Roth through the shoulder. It had been an Indian trick.
The warriors had purposely tumbled from their ponies, here; the
warriors behind had purposely driven the white men within short range.

But the five gained the knoll; they had to leave Private Smith for dead.

On the top of the knoll there was an old buffalo wallow--a shallow cup
like a small circus ring. The cup was only a foot or two deep, but the
grassy rim helped. The Indians veered from the black muzzles resting
upon the ring, and drew off, to wait and jeer, and form another circle.

"We mustn't show we're wounded, boys," Sergeant Woodall ordered, sick
with his own pain. "Move about, act lively; we'll lick 'em yet. And
save your lead for close quarters."

"Smith's not dead! I see him stirring!" cried somebody. "There he is!
But he can't make in."

"They'll get him after dark, then," groaned Private Roth. "That's
tough, fellows. I'd rather he was dead."

Amos Chapman laid down his carbine.

"They sha'n't get him. You boys keep those infernal redskins off me
and I'll run down and pick him up and fetch him back before they can
stop me."

Without waiting for answer, he dashed out, and down the little slope.
He and Scout Dixon were the only two not disabled.

George Smith was lying seventy or seventy-five yards out. It was a
long way to go, and a longer way back under a load. But Amos reached
him, before the Indians knew what was up. Then--

"He wasn't a large man, one hundred and sixty or seventy pounds," said
Scout Amos, afterward, "but I declare he seemed to weigh a ton.
Finally I lay down and got his chest across my back, and his arms
around my neck, and then got up with him. It was as much as I could do
to stagger under him, for he couldn't help himself a bit. By the time
I'd made twenty or thirty yards, about fifteen Indians came for me at
full speed on their ponies. They all knew me [he had been on their
reservation], and yelled, 'Amos! Amos! We got you now, Amos!' I
pulled my pistol, but I couldn't hold Smith on my back with one hand,
so I let him drop. The boys in the buffalo wallow opened up just at
the right time, and I opened too, with my pistol. There was a tumbling
of ponies and a scattering of Indians, and in a minute they were