So saying, he raised his rifle, without checking the speed of his horse, took a quick aim along its long barrel and fired. To my astonishment, the Indian mentioned uttered a wild shriek, and springing high in the air, fell to the earth.
“He’s done for,” remarked the trapper, quietly. “While I fodder my iron, ’sposen you try your hand.”
I raised mine to my shoulder, and pointing it toward a conspicuous savage, pulled the trigger. As might be expected, I came about as near to him as I did to Nat, in front.
“It will take a long time for me to accomplish that feat,” said I.
“Wal, yer goes agin.”
And again was the fatal rifle discharged, and again did a savage bite the dust.
Still the pursuers maintained their ground, seemingly determined to overtake us at all hazards. They were separating and scattering over the prairie, with the evident intention of hemming us in. At this moment we came up to Nat.
“Why don’t you run?” he asked, impatiently. “They’ll shoot us all afore we know it.”
He had scarcely finished his words, when the pursuers did fire, and with an uncomfortable effect, too. The bullets were plainly heard whistling through the air beside us, and one actually cut its way through the upper part of Nat’s hat, some eight or ten inches from the crown of his head. He dodged nervously, and jerking the hat off his head, held it up to view.
“Just look there!” he exclaimed, indignantly, putting his finger through the orifice.