Now the line was well into the first collection of tipis, and at the stream. On the other side the battle was raging fiercely; and into the stream plunged the reckless squadron, their line disorganized but still resistless. Among the tipis opposite reared a single tipi of black, which must be the tipi of the chief, old Black Kettle. But old Black Kettle was lying stark, shot down by the rapidly riding Koom-la-Manche.
The battle had developed into a fight-at-will—into quick shooting among the tipis and the trees, cleaning them out. The village was quickly cleaned, but the struggle had only begun. In the village were now the troops; the Indians were outside; their whoops and their firing waxed ever more furious. The Osage scouts dashed hither-thither, answering whoop with whoop. Little Beaver’s face was convulsed like a demon’s. Sighting him, Ned almost fired upon him, but stayed his hand just in time. In the melée ’twas hard to tell friend from foe.
Driven in by the cordon of troopers, still the trapped Cheyennes made desperate rushes, to gain cover. On a sudden Ned’s eyes, roving rapidly among the tipis, were halted short by a new sight: a little white girl running! A little white girl—in fringed buckskins and in moccasins; but yet a little white girl, her long light hair floating over her shoulders. With a startled shout of “Look!” and with jab of spur, Ned dashed for her.
“Mary!” he called. “Mary! Here I am! Mary!”
But how could his voice be heard, amidst the hubbub of shot and cheer and whoop!
The fight was every man for himself, and all together to keep the Indians from breaking away. The grove was a pandemonium. Ned had dashed forward alone. He passed the first of the tipis in his path; and there came Mary, fluttering bravely, dodging hard; behind, his hand even now outstretched, his countenance scowling evilly, was a large Indian warrior. Cut Nose? Maybe. Who he was did not matter.
Again Ned shouted, and spurred Buckie. He leaned, and thrust forward his revolver, to pull trigger. [The big Indian was a fair mark], at the short range; but of course [the bullet must not hit Mary]. Now she had stumbled on a tent peg, and was down. But Buckie was almost upon her; so was the Indian. Strung bow, with arrow fitted, was in his hand, as he ran; he was quick-witted, for at token of Ned on Buckie disputing his claim his arrow was instantly at his eye, bow-string drawn to an arc, and iron point leveled at Ned’s breast.
[THE BIG INDIAN WAS A FAIR MARK, BUT THE BULLET MUST NOT HIT MARY]