“No, not much,” said Davy, firmly.
“We’ll make it,” uttered Waupsie. “Got to. Fight ’em off, boys!”
The sandy plain flowed past; another horse had been wounded and the coach was fairly bristling with shafts. But the gallant team never slackened their furious pace, and suddenly with a final chorus of whoops and a last volley, the Indians turned and raced away; for yonder, around the turn, appeared the home station.
“Humph!” muttered Waupsie. “Those Injuns are just on a lark. Now I’ll get quit of this arrow.”
The cavalry squad did not arrive until after the coach had left; another squad escorted it to Fort Kearney, and by the time Atchison was reached, two days afterward, Dave’s shoulder was beginning to heal.
“It doesn’t hurt much, really, Ben,” he insisted; but he was proud of his wound. The scar he carries to-day and other scars besides.
From Atchison he and Ben went down to Leavenworth. On the street at Leavenworth a hand clapped him on his shoulder (fortunately his well shoulder), and looking up he looked into the face of Billy Cody.