We waited till they got well within
range. Then at Simpson's order we fired. Three ponies galloped
riderless over the prairie, and our besiegers hesitated, then wheeled,
and rode out of range. But our rest was short. Back they came. Again we
fired, and had the good fortune to stop three more of them.
Simpson patted me encouragingly on the shoulder. "You're all right,
Billy!" he said, and his praise was music to my ears.
By this time our poor dead mules, who had given their lives for ours,
were stuck full of arrows. Woods had been winged in the shoulder.
Simpson, carefully examining the wound, expressed his belief that the
arrow which inflicted it had not been poisoned.
[Illustration: A SHOWER OF ARROWS RAINED ON OUR DEAD MULES FROM THE
CLOSING CIRCLE OF RED-MEN]
But we had little time to worry about that or anything else. Our
enemies were still circling, just out of range. Here and there when
they grew incautious we dropped a man or a pony. But we were still
heavily outnumbered. They knew it and we knew it. Unless help came it
was only a question of time till it was all over.
Daylight came and they still held off. Eagerly we looked to the
westward, but no wagon-train appeared. We began to fear that something
had happened to our friends, when, suddenly one of the Indians jumped
up, and with every evidence of excitement signaled to the others.
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