The Paddy Miles sharp-shooters, snug beneath the cars, and protected by the rails and the car-wheels, stanchly replied. The heavy Springfield balls kicked up long spurts of sand and ’dobe dust; once in a while a pony rider darted in, for closer shot—sometimes he got away with it, and sometimes his horse lunged headlong, to lie floundering while the rider himself ran hunched, for shelter. Then the men cheered and volleyed at him; maybe bowled him over, but not always.
Terry’s father had lighted his pipe; and there he sat, on his seat, with his gun poked out of the window, to get a shot when he might. He was as cool as a cucumber, and ready for any kind of business. This was not his first scrape, by any means. He had been a gold-seeker in the rush of Fifty-nine, to the Pike’s Peak diggin’s of Colorado; and he had served in the Union Army of the Civil War. Only his crippled knee had put him into the cab—but brave men were needed here, the same as elsewhere, these days.
“Where did the other engine go, dad?” Terry asked.
“To the nearest wire. There’s a spur station and operator ten miles back, you know. Sedgwick has the word, by now; and so has North Platte. Pretty soon we’ll see the Pawnees coming from the one direction and the general himself from the other; and that’ll put an end to this fracas.”
Terry exclaimed.
“They’re shooting fire arrows!”
Cleverly worming along, several of the Indians had posted themselves near enough to use their bows. They launched arrow after arrow, with bunches of flaming dried grass and greasy rags—yes, as like as not old waste—tied to the heads; and these plumped into car top and car side.
“The confounded rascals!” growled Engineer Richards.
Fireman Bill Sweeny hurdled from the first car down to the tender. He was sweat-streaked and grim, and bleeding at the shoulder. He grabbed a bucket, soused it into the tank, and away he staggered.
“Train’s afire, Ralph,” he yelled back. “Don’t shove out——” and he was gone.