It was perhaps two hours later when Fannie, who was playing outside, hurried within, saying some Indians were coming over the ridge on horseback, and they were riding fast toward the house. Mrs. Freeman was too quick-witted to hesitate a moment. The approaching red men might be friendly or they might be enemies. The fact of their speeding so hard in the direction of the house was startling, and, without waiting to decide the question, she took the wise course of acting on the theory that they were enemies.
The door was hastily barred; Fannie was placed in a corner where no stray shots could reach her, and taking down the Winchester the mother peered cautiously out of one of the windows. She saw four repellent Apaches reining up their ponies, less than a hundred yards away; she saw them, too, bring their guns to their shoulders, and the next instant the room was filled with fragments of window panes, shattered by their bullets.
The woman wanted no other proof than this of the designs of her assailants. Kneeling on the floor, she rested the barrel of the Winchester on the window sill, and keeping so far back that she was not seen, took deliberate aim and pulled the trigger.
The shot hit the bull’s-eye. She had handled the weapon many a time before, and she was as cool as a veteran when she tumbled the Apache to the earth. He had time to utter only a single screech when he stretched out motionless on the ground, with his mustang circling beyond in frightened bewilderment.
Without shifting her position, Mrs. Freeman fired again. She did damage, though to a less extent than before. Her bullet bored its way through the pony of a second warrior, and he stumbled to the ground so suddenly that his rider was obliged to move nimbly to avoid being caught beneath.
The Apaches had not counted upon this reception, and the survivors lost no time in placing themselves further from the rifle that was speaking so effectively. The single defender kept close watch upon them, but it will be seen, that despite the brilliant manner in which she had acquitted herself, she was still in great peril. There was only one condition that could save her.
Maroz, Ceballos and their surviving ally did not dare to wait long enough to push the fight. They were aware that their flight from the reservation had become known, and more than likely a squad of cavalry was already thundering on their trail. There was no hope in lingering in the Sutra Valley, nor indeed anywhere north of the river. Their destination was the Apache Mountains to the south, and they had but to delay their flight only a brief while to find it cut off altogether.
But for this, they would have pressed the attack, burned the house, despite all the brave woman could do, and wreaked revenge on her and her child; but an Apache is too cunning to run unnecessary risk.
During the five or ten minutes following the fall of the hostile, one of the survivors gave an exhibition of the astonishing activity and power of his people. He made a dash across the open plain, and, though the riderless pony was going at high speed, he overhauled him in a twinkling, leaped deftly upon his bare back, wheeled him short round, and plunged toward the cabin, as if making a direct charge upon it.
While the amazed wife was holding her rifle in position, and wondering what all this could mean, the steed described a graceful circle and his rider became invisible for a few seconds. He had thrown himself over the animal’s side, and, holding himself in position by one foot curved over the pony’s neck and the left hand knotted in his mane, he reached down with the other arm, and, hardly abating the pace of his horse, slid it under the body of his lifeless comrade, and swung back to an upright position, with the limp form held securely in front.