The firing was resumed. We heard the other mule scream with note indescribable; we heard him flounder and kick; and again the savages yelled.
Now they all charged recklessly from the four sides; and I had to stand and fire, right, left, before, behind, emptying the gun once more ere they scattered and fled. I sensed her fingers twitching at my belt, extracting fresh cartridges. We sank, breathing hard. Her eyes were wide, and bluer than any deepest summer sea; her face aflame; her hair of purest gold—and upon her shoulder a challenging oriflamme of scarlet, staining a rent in the faded calico.
“You’re hurt!” I blurted, aghast. 292
“Not much. A scratch. Don’t mind it. And you?”
“I’m not touched.”
“Load, sir. But I think we’ll have a little space. How many left? Nine.” She had been counting. “Seven for them.”
“Seven for them,” I acknowledged. I tucked home the loads; the six-shooter was ready.
“Now let them come,” she murmured.
“Let them come,” I echoed. We looked one upon the other, and we smiled. It was not so bad, this place, our minds having been made up to it. In fact, there was something sweet. Our present was assured; we faced a future together, at least; we were in accord.
The Sioux had retired, mainly to sit dismounted in close circle, for a confab. Occasionally a young brave, a vidette, exuberantly galloped for us, dared us, shook hand and weapon at us, no doubt spat at us, and gained nothing by his brag.