Two hours passed without a shot being fired. The sun had grown hot, the heat-cats began to run up the south-facing hill, and Bill and Tim found this tedious waiting and watching the hardest kind of work they had ever done. Barker and Tatanka did not seem to mind it. They kept their eyes on the enemy but chatted and joked quietly in the most unconcerned manner, as if being besieged by Indians were a most ordinary thing to them.
“I don’t think they are a bit afraid,” said Bill.
“I’m not afraid,” Tim answered, “as long as the Indians don’t come into our bush. But I’m hungry and awfully thirsty.”
“I think I can find water,” said Bill. “I’m awfully thirsty, too. You watch my Indian a little while.”
In half an hour Bill came back. “Tim,” he reported, with joy, “go to the big poplar near the horses. I’ve dug a well there with my hands and knife. The water isn’t very good, but it will give you a drink.”
Tim went and told the men about Bill’s well, and both took turns to get a drink.
“Oh!” remarked Tatanka, with a grin, “Bill has found good water. He is a good Indian soldier.”
A little later, Tatanka crept rapidly forward to an outlying willow-bush where he quietly rose on his knees and fired. The bragging Indian jumped out of the grass and tried to run away, but he staggered and fell.
Then the Indian on the white horse came on a gallop to carry off the wounded man, but Tatanka fired again and the white horse fell dead, but the dismounted rider helped the wounded man to get out of range, before Tatanka could load and fire again.
While this had been going on, the two other mounted Indians had come racing along as if they would run straight into the copse, and both Tim and Barker fired at them. The trapper’s mark reared and plunged for the open prairie, and the other rider also threw his pony around, for Tim’s bullet had gone singing close over his head. When they had run some hundred yards, both Indians turned and fired, but as the defenders had kept well under cover, the balls flew wild among the thick poplars.