That was poor shooting, all around. But to shoot from galloping pony or from bouncing wagon is uncertain work.
Back scrambled the captain. He had a great deal to do. He found another warrior—a young fellow—keeping pace with the wagon, in the foot-trail where the wagon teamsters walked when traveling with their freighting outfits.
The pony's head was actually within arm's length from the pucker-hole. The captain struck at it with his revolver; the Indian, hanging low, kept whipping the pony and forcing him in again. The Indian began to notch an arrow upon the bow-string; he was going to shoot. As the captain leaned, to get a shot in first, the arrow point threatened not three feet from his breast!
He could not see the Indian's body; could see only half his leg, hooked over the pony's back. All that he might do was to strike at the arrow; then he dodged back. Up rose the Indian; out popped the captain. Down sank the Indian; back dodged the captain. Up rose the Indian; out popped the captain. Down sank the Indian—up he rose and "Bang!!" spoke the captain's navy six-shooter. It was a chance shot, but the bullet tore through the Indian's heart, and dropping the halter, he toppled, dead.
"I've killed one of 'em, Hallowell!" cheered the captain, excitedly.
"Hurrah! Bully for you! Hi! Yip! Yip!" And—"Whack! Whack!"
He never quit driving, not Lieutenant Hallowell!
The Indians had halted, to examine their dead warrior, and yell over him.
"What they doing now, Cap?"
"Holding a funeral."