Such a hot wrath surged into Terry’s brain and to his very finger-tips that all he wanted now was a chance at that Indian, himself. If he but had a gun—or if he might grab the Indian by the legs, drag him down, and get atop of him! Anything, so as to avenge brave old Shep. For the moment Terry was too hot to think of himself, or Bill, or anybody except Shep, and that Cheyenne.
The Cheyenne stood over Shep, kicked him once or twice, and then seemed about to come on again. Terry crouched, tense and alert. Shep had not saved them, after all. Too bad.
“Is ’e comin’?” murmured Bill. “’E killed the dawg?”
“Sh!” warned Terry.
No! Hurrah! The Cheyenne stopped, and looked back. The Indians by the fire had whooped to him, and were disappearing. The Cheyenne turned and ran for them.
“He’s going, Bill!” Terry gasped. “It’s the train. That’s coming. I can see the headlight. Oh, Bill!”
Bill struggled, to see also. Afar down the track there was a light, wavering and flashing, and they could hear a dull rumble. Several of the mounted Indians had dashed away, in that direction. The others were scuttling and hiding.
“H’it’s the freight,” Bill groaned. “H’it’s the freight that was at Kearney. Bully Brookes, ’e’s h’engine driver, ’Enshaw, ’e’s the stoker. H’it’ll be a smash, an’ we can’t ’elp it. Is your dawg killed?”
“Yes, I guess so. But if he hadn’t run out the Cheyenne would have found us and we’d have been killed, too.”
“’E was a good dawg, a sure-’nough ’ero. ’E stopped the h’Injun, but we can’t stop that train.”