Yes, the Indians were coming. In a minute they had overhauled the wagon, bombarding it with arrows as they passed on both sides. Captain Booth turned around on his box, to watch them through the front end. He did not know that his body bulged the wagon-sheet cover.
"Hit again, Cap!" called the lieutenant.
"Where now?"
"In the back."
The captain started to rise; could not get up. He was pinned fast to the canvas, by an arrow. But he wrenched free—never felt his wound and hurried to the lieutenant.
"Right in the back, Cap."
Sure enough. The feathered tip of an arrow was sticking out from under the slat of the seat-back behind the lieutenant. The captain pulled at it, the lieutenant squirmed.
"Hurt you much, Hallowell?"
"Some. No matter. Pull it out. Hi! Gwan! Yip!"
The arrow was red with blood for six inches, but the lieutenant did not even glance at it. He kept driving.