“Guess they are.” And Terry also tried to speak cheerfully. “If we could only get to that ridge yonder, maybe we’d see Cheyenne.”
The Indians were beginning to whoop. Their cries wafted shrilly and threateningly—likewise gleefully. They were between the boys and the distant grade—were closing in almost parallel. From the grade nobody was coming, to the rescue. It seemed horrible to be cut off, this way, and forced to fight for one’s life, right within sight of other persons—right within sight of possible help; but that had been the story of the railroad, to date. The same thing had occurred along almost every mile of the track, and the grading, and the surveys.
“When we come to a good place, stop quick. We’ll have to fight ’em off, George,” spoke Terry. “We can’t make even the ridge.”
A fellow could always do that, if he was smart: down his horse, fort behind it, and shoot true.
The yells were louder. The Indians were within easy range. In a moment the bullets would commence to sing.
“Now!” rasped Terry—and at the instant George’s horse stumbled, pitched to his knees, and sent George flying over its head. Terry reined in a jiffy, tumbled off, and leveled his carbine across the saddle.
“Give it to ’em. Get up—catch your hoss. I’ll hold ’em off.”
The sight blurred in his eyes—but the Indians swerved madly—he saw the nearest lift hand, palm to the front, heard him shout—and heard George also.
“Wait! Don’t shoot. They’re Pawnees!”
So they were—the Pawnee scouts, several of them in army breeches made into leggins. They had bunched and halted, the leader (the one with the hand up) was riding forward, grinning; now the rest followed. The relief was so great that Terry felt faint and trembly.