“Give them a shot, Bill,” said Barker. “They are only a quarter of a mile away. It’s going to be a fight for our lives.”
Two of the Indians returned Bill’s fire, but their balls or shot fell short.
“I think they have nothing but old trader guns. In that case, we may be able to beat them off,” remarked Barker.
The Indians took the team out of range. Then, three of them on horseback, and three on foot, they surrounded the grove.
One of the Indians on foot waved his blanket and shouted:
“Come out, you white men, and fight. You are squaws, you are rabbits.”
The horsemen slowly rode around the copse, while it became evident that the other three were trying to crawl up through the grass to a small clump of hazel-brush.
“Keep cool, boys,” the trapper admonished. “Don’t waste powder; hit your mark. Anybody can hit the prairie.”
“What do they want of us?” asked Tim, who had tied his coon to a tree. “We have nothing.”
“My lad,” laughed the trapper, “we have good horses and guns and four extra-fine scalps, and they want to play great heroes in camp to-night.”