“We outnumber the infernal redskins,” cried Henry. “Come on, boys, let’s go back and clean ’em up!”
“We’re with you!” cried the others, and, quickly mounting their mustangs, they were soon started towards the place where the Indians had last been seen. As they rode over a small hillock, the murderous redskins could be sighted far below on the plain. They were intent upon setting fire to the ranch buildings and did not notice the approach of Shane and his companions.
“Spread out, boys!” cried the now excited plainsman. “Spread out and try to surround the red devils!”
The Mexicans and Texan vaqueros followed his lead, and, circling about the red men, soon closed in upon them from three sides. Rifles began to ring out, and, with a wild yelping, the Indians started to retreat. As they did so, Henry Shane waved his sombrero in the air, and all raced after the red men, on the dead gallop.
Now was a beautiful running fight. The Indians could not aim at all well, from the backs of their ponies. Their bullets went very wide. The whites, on the other hand, shot two of the Indian mustangs; and, although their owners fell to the ground, both swung themselves to the backs of other ponies and safely rode off, hanging to the waists of the riders. Finally they all got away in a deep canyon, and ambuscaded themselves so well behind rocks and boulders that the plainsmen decided to withdraw. The Indians had not hit a single white man.
Soon after this event Henry Shane purchased some sheep and took them up on the Foris River to graze. He lived in a tent, with one companion. They pitched their canvas behind a brush fence.
One night Henry was sitting with his back to this fence, boiling some coffee, with no thought that any redskins were within twenty miles of him. But at this very moment several were prowling around his camp and had noticed the position which he was in. One of them—bolder than the rest—slipped up to the opposite side of the fence with the intention of poking his gun through the brush and shooting the pioneer in the back. As he shoved the muzzle of his gun through the dry twigs, he made so much noise that the plainsman heard him. Turning to his Mexican herder, Felipe Flores, he cried out:
“Felipe! What is that noise?”
“It is a rat,” replied Felipe. “I saw one running through the brush.”