The Indians were still getting the worst of it. A large number were lying dead or wounded. The sun was high.
"What they up to, next, I wonder?"
"They're goin' to smoke us out! I see a fellow crawlin' through the grass to windward."
"Can't you get him?" demanded Captain Jim.
"No. He's foxy."
"Whereabouts?"
Bob Armstrong's heavy rifle interrupted.
"I fetched him, boys! Plumb through the head. Dead center."
Bob had scored at two hundred and fifty yards, with a snap-shot. He was one of the best rifle-shots on the border.
The grass was fired, nevertheless, in several spots. It was dry, and caught like tinder; the flames crackled and leaped, and raced down upon the thicket. The smoke rose densely. The Indians might be dimly seen, running about in the drifting veil and carrying off their killed and wounded.