Buffalo Bill and the Overland Trail / Being the story of how boy and man worked hard and played hard to blaze the white trail, by wagon train, stage coach and pony express, across the great plains and the mountains beyond, that the American republic might expand and flourish

by Edwin L. Sabin

An arrow had pinned his right arm to his side. He jerked at it and could not budge it, and Ben grabbed the lines.

“You take my gun, Dave,” he ordered. “Don’t shoot unless you have to; and then shoot the ponies. Fight ’em off.”

Dave promptly seized the gun from Ben’s lap, and at once he saw the reason in the last order. The Indians were racing on either side; whenever he raised the gun to aim every Indian on that side ducked to the opposite flank of his horse, and left only a moccasin sole in sight. That was a small mark at which to aim from a jolting coach. Dave aimed and aimed again; whenever he paused, up bobbed the Indians; when he pointed the gun at them, down they ducked; and all the time they were shooting from underneath their ponies’ necks or from the saddle.

“[That’s right. Fight ’em off, Davy.] It’s as good as emptying your gun,” panted Ben, hanging hard to the lines. Waupsie was plying the whip—now and then to drop it and level his revolver.

[“THAT’S RIGHT. FIGHT ’EM OFF, DAVY”]

“Fight ’em off, Davy!”

A sharp shock almost paralyzed Dave’s right arm, and through shoulder and arm surged a red-hot pain. He nearly dropped the gun. He glanced at his shoulder and saw a flush of crimson dyeing his shirt. But no arrow was sticking there as he had feared. It was only a gash. All right.

“Hurt, Dave?” queried Ben.