“Can’t wait,” yelled Waupsie, “Goodby. Fact is,” he remarked, half to himself, “I can’t hold ’em. Drat their skins!”
The whoops of the Indians were plainly heard; the breeze was from the south, and as if smelling the red enemy the stage horses were wild with fear. Braced, Waupsie sawed on the lines; his foot pressed the brake hard, but he might as well have saved his strength.
Waupsie had no time or opportunity to use a gun; his business was to drive. Ben cocked his shot-gun lying across his knees.
“Get in the boot, Dave,” he bade.
Davy started to slide under, but stopped ashamed. In a rush the Indians, whooping and frantically brandishing bows and lances, charged the trail, cutting in behind, and racing on both sides before. The cavalry squad were now far in the rear.
With a thud an arrow landed full in the coach side; another quivered in the flank of the off wheel horse—and he leaped prodigiously.
“Steady! Steady, boys!” besought Waupsie.
The arrows were hissing and thudding. The painted Indians looked like demons. Ben flung up his gun, took hasty aim, and at the report the nearest Indian on the left (a particularly determined fellow) swerved away, reeling in his saddle pad. Red spots could be seen on his side where the buck-shot had struck. At the rear the cavalrymen were shooting vainly, and suddenly Waupsie gave an exclamation.
“Take these lines, quick!” he said. “Confound it!”