IN FULL FLIGHT.
One more glance he takes at the stirring picture before him, longing to drive a shot at the nearest Indians, and as he gazes there comes staggering, laboring into sight from around a point of bluff beyond the beleaguered party, a horse all foam and blood, who goes plunging to earth only a few yards away from the ambulance, and rolls stiffening and quivering in his death agony; but the gray-haired old rider has leaped safely to the ground, and his carbine flashed its instant defiance at the yelling foe. Even at that distance there is no mistaking the well-known form. Fred Waller's wondering eyes have recognized at once—his father.
Now indeed he speeds away for help! Now indeed, has Jim to run for more than life! Turning his back upon the thrilling scene, the little trumpeter goes like a prairie gale, whirling back to the valley of the Platte.
* * * * *
The sun is sinking behind the bluffs, and its last rays fall on a bullet-riddled ambulance; on the stiffening bodies of a half dozen slaughtered animals—a horse and some mules; on a grim, determined little band of soldiers—two of them sorely wounded. The red shafts gleam on a litter of empty cartridge-shells and tinge the canvas top of the overturned wagon. Out on the rolling prairie several hundred yards away, the turf is dotted here and there by Indian ponies, the innocent victims of this savage warfare. Such Indian braves as have fallen have long since been picked up by their raging comrades and borne away. Despite their numbers, never once yet have the savages managed to reach the defenders. Time and again they have swooped down in charge only to be met by cool, well-aimed shots that tumbled some of their numbers to the turf and sent the others veering and yelling into the old familiar circle. At last they are trying the expedient of long-range shots from different points of the compass, hoping to kill or cripple the whole party by sundown. The bullets clip the turf and scatter the dust all over the ridge. There is practically no shelter, for the ground is too hard to dig. Old Sergeant Waller is prostrate with a bullet through the thigh. Colonel Gaines has bound his handkerchief tightly around his arm. The driver lies flat on his face—dead. Every now and then the others turn longing eyes southward, hoping for some sign of infantry coming from the post, so many a mile away. They know well that Edwards will have levied on every wagon in Sidney to bring them; but not a whiff of dust-cloud do they see. One of the soldiers gives a low moan and clasps his hands to his side; and Cross mutters between his set teeth, "Five minutes more of this will settle it."
But what means this sudden scurry and excitement among the besiegers? Why do they crowd and clamor there at the north? What can they see over that ridge beyond the little stream? Presently others join them. Then more and more. Then there are whoops of rage; a few ill-aimed, scattering shots. Three or four of the red men ride daringly, tauntingly down, as though to resume the attack, and shout vile epithets in vilest English in response to the shots with which they are greeted, and then they too go riding away. "Lie down, you idiots!" yells Captain Cross to the two soldiers who would spring up to cheer, but a moment more and even the wounded wave their feeble hands and join in the triumphant shout. The ridge is cleared of every vestige of the foe. The warriors go speeding away eastward toward the Platte. Far out over the prairie, to the northeast, a troop of blue horsemen are driving in pursuit, and, over the neighboring crest, come a half dozen friendly forms and faces, spurring their foam-flecked horses in the race.
"Look up, sergeant! Look up, old man! Here's Fred himself. Didn't I tell you he was no deserter?" It was Cross' voice, and it is Cross' strong arm that lifts the wondering, trembling veteran to his feet. The young fellow has leaped from his horse and is springing toward them. With wondrous look of relief, of inexpressible joy, of gratitude beyond all words, of almost Heaven-born rapture mingling with the sunshine in his old face, the sergeant stretches forth his trembling arms and cries aloud, "My boy! my boy!"
CHAPTER XIV.