Still, the man was not disabled; not he. His gun remain levelled, and neither the boy nor the other man paid any attention to him. The three occasionally shot, but lying low against their ponies’ sides the Indians, galloping fast, were hard to hit.
Cut Nose raised his hand again, and from the circle he veered outward. The circle instantly scattered, and after their chief galloped every warrior.
Forward hammered the two squaws, with vengeful look at little Dave which bade him not to lag. The warriors had gathered in a group, out of gunshot from the fort. Cut Nose was furious. Indians hate to lose warriors; and there were three, and a pony, stretched upon the plain.
“Are you all old women?” scolded Chief Cut Nose, while Dave tried to guess at what was being shouted, and his two guardians pressed to the edge of the circle. “You let three whites, one of whom is very little, beat us? The dogs will bark at us when we go back and the squaws will whip us through the village. Everybody at home will laugh. They will say: ‘These are not Cheyennes. They are sick Osages! They are afraid to take a scalp, and when an enemy points a stick at them, they run!’ Bah! Am I a chief, and are you warriors, or are we all ghosts?”
Panting, the warriors listened. They murmured and shrugged, as the words stung.
“Those whites shoot very straight. The little one shoots the straightest of any. They must have many guns. They shoot once and without loading they shoot again,” argued Lame Buffalo.
“You talk foolish,” thundered Cut Nose. “These whites cannot keep shooting. All we need to do is to charge swift and not stop, and when we reach them their guns will be empty. Shall Cheyennes draw back and leave three brothers and a good pony lying on the prairie? These whites will go on and join their whoa-haw train, and tell how they three, from behind dead mules, fought off the whole Cheyenne nation! Or shall we send our squaws against them, to kill them! The little white boy will laugh,” and he pointed at Dave. “He will not want to be a Cheyenne; he will stay white. Cheyennes are cowards.”
Through the jostling company ran a hot murmur; but Lame Buffalo, especially scolded, almost burst.
“No!” he yelled. “Cheyennes are not cowards! I am a Cheyenne. I can kill those three whites myself. I will go alone. I ask no help.”
He whirled his pony; he burst from the dense ring, and tossing high his plumed lance, with a tremendous shout he launched himself straight for the mule fort. He did not ride alone; no, indeed! Answering his shout, and imitating his gesture, every warrior followed, vying to outstrip him. Now woe for the whites. Dave’s heart beat so as well-nigh to choke him. His eyes leaped to the fort.