Sitting up in his rifle pit as well as he was able, and leaning backwards upon his elbows, the grim and determined officer shouted, "Now!"
Instantly the scouts scrambled to their knees, with their rifles at their shoulders. Each man looked carefully along the barrel of his piece, and then a ringing volley sounded above the wild yelping of the painted followers of Roman Nose: the courageous.
Crash!
On came the red warriors, screeching like a pack of timber wolves in the season of greatest hunger.
Crash!
In the centre of the line, a dozen ponies went down. Their riders fell headlong upon the turf, but the rest did not falter. The Indians were now but sixty yards from the breastworks.
Crash!
The ponies seemed to be falling over one another. In heaps, both redskins and horses lurched headlong into the clear waters of the Arickaree. Shrieks, groans, and savage yelping were mingled with the shrill wails of the women and children who were witness to this, one of the most glorious charges in history.
Crash!
Great gaps began to show in the ranks, as the Indians came within fifty yards of the island of death. On the extreme left the medicine man reeled on his pony's back and fell headlong into the stream, while his followers galloped madly over his prostrate form. Roman Nose, with a loud yell of defiance, swung his Springfield rifle over his head, as he galloped furiously to the edge of the island. He reached the very end of it, when