ly, as they gazed along the distant wagon trail, there came a
thunderous rush of hoofs from behind the station. But the men had heard
the sound before, and did not need to look to know what it meant.

"They're after us again, Joe!" exclaimed one, in a disgusted tone, as
they sprang into the ranch and barred its heavy door behind them. A
moment later they were in the "dug-out" behind the corral, and the
gleaming barrels of two rifles were thrust from two of its narrow
port-holes.

"I swear, Joe! if one of them hasn't the cheek to ride old Snow-ball,
and he's in the lead, too. You drop him, and I'll take the next one."

There were two reports. A white mule pitched heavily forward and its
rider was flung to the ground. A wounded Indian clung to his pony. Then
the whole band wheeled and dashed back to where they had come from,
taking both their wounded warrior and the one who had been flung to the
ground with them.

"Did you notice that the fellow I dropped had a white man's hat on?"
asked Joe, as the two men watched the retreat of their foes.

"Yes, and white men's clothes on, too. I wonder who he murdered and
robbed to get 'em?"

Chapter XVII.

A CHEYENNE WAR-PARTY.

The war-party, detected by the wonderful eyesight of the Cheyenne scout
while they were yet miles away from him, had been for more than a week
engaged in attacking stages and wagon-trains on the Smoky Hill Trail.
Hiding behind some slight elevation, or in a cottonwood thicket near the
road, with keen-eyed scouts always on the lookout, they would burst like
a whirlwind on their unsuspecting victims, pour in a withering volley of
bullets and arrows, and disappear, almost before a return shot could be
fired. Sometimes they would maintain a running fight for miles with a
stage, their fleet ponies easily keeping pace with its frantic mules,
and many a one thus fell into their hands. Its fate was always the same.
If any of its defenders survived the fight they were either killed or
reserved for the worse fate of captives. Its mail-sacks were ripped open
and their contents scattered far and wide. Finally it was set on fire
and destroyed.

Sometimes the stages escaped; in which case their passengers had
marvellous tales to tell. One of these, that reached the safety of
General Lyle's wagon-train just in time to avoid capture, had but one
living passenger, a woman who was not even wounded during the almost
continuous storm of arrows and bullets of a