Far in the distance Abe could discern two mounted figures; they were approaching but slowly; but as they came on, the keen eyes of the guide could see that they were Indians.
“I was right! The White Vulture is a smart feller for an Injun, but he ain’t the match for the ‘Crow-Killer’ yet. Let me see: thar’s two of them to settle. I wonder if they’ll be within revolver range ’fore they spy me? Guess they will. Hello! thar’s another red-skin ahead on foot.” And in truth, there strode a stalwart warrior a couple of hundred yards before the others; he was evidently the advance scout.
“Three!” cried the “Crow-Killer”; “wal—the more the merrier. I guess I’m good for ’em.”
The single Indian in advance was coming on with a long, tireless stride, his eager eyes fixed upon the wagon-trail imprinted on the prairie-grass before him. Then behind the single savage on foot and the two mounted ones, the hunter saw five more Crows on horseback. A low whistle escaped from the lips of the Indian-fighter as he beheld the newcomers.
“Sho! thar’s a heap onto ’em; guess I’ll have to make a runnin’ fight; eight ag’in’ one—tall odds even for the ‘Crow-Killer.’ Hello! thar’s the ‘White Vulture’ or his hoss—same thing, ’cos of course he’s on his back.” And as the hunter had said, at the head of the last five Indians rode the “White Vulture,” mounted on the milk-white steed.
The “Crow-Killer” thought over his plan of action and speedily decided what to do. Little time for thinking had he, for the Indian on foot was even now within rifle range; and his long, loping stride carried him rapidly forward. He was a thick-set, muscular young brave, brawny-chested, but with the misshapen lower limbs peculiar to all the “Horse Indians,” who, from infancy, spend nearly all their lives on horseback, and rarely use their legs for locomotion, unless in some case like the present, where, in trailing a foe, there was much less chance of being detected by that foe on foot than on the back of a steed.
The face of the young brave was gayly decked with the war-paint, as was also his bare breast. In his hand he carried a short carbine, such as are carried by the United States troops. It was evidently a trophy of victory wrested from the “blue-coated chiefs,” as the Indians generally designate the soldiers who wear the blue of Uncle Sam.
The sight of the carbine raised the old hunter’s anger.
“Guess, afore long, I’ll fix you so you won’t steal any more carbines!” muttered the “Crow-Killer,” as, raising his revolver, he “drew a bead” on the savage, who still came rapidly on, unconscious of his danger.
“I’ll plug him, then I’ll mount old roan and go for the rest. Arter he’s out of the way ’twill only be seven ag’in’ one. I’ll teach ’em to foller my trail, the red skunks, durn ’em!”