"Corral!"
"Charge 'em! Meet the beggars!"
"No! Under yore wagon, everybody!"
"Get out o' my way! Yip! Gee, Buck!"
"Haw, Spot! Haw, Whity! Haw with you!"
"Durn these mules! We'll all be wolf meat."
"Look! There's nigh a thousand of 'em!"
The out-rider guards had lined, on either hand, to stand the enemy off while the wagons bunched. A rear guard sped to protect the caballada. Captain Charles Bent tore back from the advance. He was bare-headed. His long black hair streamed in the breeze that he made. He was mounted on a rangy, raw-boned black mule, with split ears—Comanche brand. No man more fearless ever ranged the plains. A host in himself, was Charles Bent.
His voice fairly thundered as he sped along the struggling line of wagons and teams.
"Bring on those wagons! Corral! Don't lose your senses, men! We're all right. But corral, corral!"