“There is the scene of our first battle, old man,” he said. “Rafe Norris is too old in mountain lore to leave such a place undefended. Call the men to a halt, Jim,” he added aloud, speaking to his second in command.
He had scarcely spoken when a mounted man shot out of the dark defile, followed by another and another, until eight horsemen, mounted admirably and armed to the teeth, were seen to form under the rocky wall. Enemies as they were Dave could not but admire the manner in which they fell into line, nor doubt that they were fearless and well-trained men. No time was wasted and no questions asked, for, as this body of brave men began to form, the trappers spread out to left and right and opened a telling fire upon them at the distance of three hundred yards. Massed as they were against a wall of gray rocks, upon which their forms stood out in bold relief, there was no such thing as missing, and their men were dropping on every side under the murderous fire before they were ready for the charge and the command to advance rung out. The same command might have served for the brigade for they closed in at the same moment, slung their rifles, drew their revolvers and charged!
An equal number of the most daring fighters, the best horsemen and best armed must make a terrible fray, and one or the other must break soon. It was the band of Rafe Norris which “could not stand the pressure,” and after a bloody engagement of five minutes’ duration, during which many a blow was given and taken and many revolvers emptied—not without effect, the broken band of Norris reeled backward and fled for the entrance of the ravine, with the men of the brigade upon their haunches. The deep glen swallowed them up, when, as if by magic, the entrance to the glen bristled with lances held by Indians, who well know how to use them, forming an impenetrable obstacle to any further advance.
A single shout from Dave Farrell and his men broke to left and right, one half led by Old Pegs and the other by himself, and making a circuit they met upon the spot where the battle had commenced.
“Hot work, boys,” said Dave as he passed his hand across his heated brow. “If it had not been for those cursed lances we would have been on their cruppers yet, but no horsemen in the world could break through those lances as they are posted now; but we can drive them out.”
“I’ll take the job,” said Old Pegs. “I only want ten men.”
“Take them,” cried Dave, shortly, “and when the pass is clear signal us to advance.”
Old Pegs picked out his men and rode away at a cracking pace, accompanied by two men to bring back the horses. In the meantime the British force were grouped in the rear of their Indian allies, ready to meet the attack should the enemy attempt to break through. What was their surprise to see the trappers dismount and begin to lounge about, just out of rifle range, making no effort to advance.
“They’ve sent for help, I reckon,” said a dark-browed, ruffianly looking fellow who had command of the whites in the detachment who guarded the pass. “What d’ye say, Injun?”
Injun John, who since the death of Half-breed Jack had command of the Sioux, nodded gravely in reply.