“How are you making out, Baby?” asked Captain Shirril, turning his head and coolly scrutinizing his relative.
“Only fairly,” replied Avon, replenishing the magazine of his gun and keeping his gaze on the plain in front.
“It is well enough to drop a mustang, but it is better to tumble their riders off them.”
“I meant to do that, but failed.”
The natural supposition of the friends was 270 that the hot reception they had given their assailants would check them, and cause their withdrawal beyond the deadly range of their Winchesters. The reports must have reached the cowboys, and both glanced at the ridge to the west, over which they expected to see their comrades coming to their rescue.
But the Comanches could not have failed to know of the presence of others near at hand, which fact warned them that whatever they did must be done quickly. Instead of falling back, therefore, because of the loss of a single warrior and steed, they rallied and pushed the fight with greater vigor than ever.
In the face of the cracking Winchesters they rode closer than before, and then branching apart, put their animals on a run while they discharged their guns from every conceivable position. Instead of wheeling about as at first, they kept them straight away on the circle, which being less than before, enabled them to circumnavigate the defenders in a brief space of time.
The captain and his nephew had their hands full, for assailants were on every side of them, 271 and the popping of their guns was continuous. The attack was so serious, and the defenders were in such a conspicuous position, that it was impossible to escape the storm of bullets flying all around them.
A quick start on the part of Thunderbolt showed that he had been hit, while almost at the same moment the rearing of the captain’s mustang proved that he, too, was hurt.
“Make your horse lie down,” called the elder.