The Cheyennes chased about, circled the engine heap, and danced and whooped. Flames burst forth, licking up through the heap, and the scene grew brighter and brighter.
“I think we’d better move, Bill,” Terry stammered. “They’ll see us here, sure, as soon as the train gets to burning. We can hide in the little gully where I was.”
“H’all right,” Bill groaned. “H’it’s a good time, while they’re murderin’ somebody h’else.”
That was a hard journey, with Bill hitching painfully through the brush, using one arm and carrying his scalp and stopping every little while to rest and pant. The wonder was, that he could move at all—a man who had been shot and stabbed and scalped; but he had a lot of will power, and was determined to live and make the scalp grow on his head again, “to fool them bloody h’Injuns.”
At last he was settled in the gully, with Terry’s coat under his head. Terry crawled up to the edge again, to lie shivering, and see what more occurred. It wasn’t very likely, though, that the Indians would leave the wreck until they had to.
No, they stayed there. One or two of the cars following the engine and tender had been loaded with brick. They had landed right on top of the engine, and the bricks were scattered all around. The Indians were pelting the heap with the loose bricks; they acted like children; but pretty soon the fire got too hot for that, so they withdrew, to squat in a circle, and curiously watch.
The second train had backed down track, and was far distant, still backing. Had gone to Plum Creek, probably, for help. Shivering Terry and groaning Bill Thompson were left alone, with the Indians and the blazing wreck. What a night! When would help come?
Terry never forgot this night. Up the track, and down the track beyond the wreck nothing moved. The Indians stretched out and seemed to sleep comfortably in the warmth of their big fire, as if waiting until morning. In the gully Bill now and then groaned. On the edge of the gully Terry huddled and nodded—but whenever he started to doze, he woke with a jump, seeing things.
Poor old Shep! He had Shep in his mind a great deal. Yes, Shep was a hero, and he should not be left there, for the coyotes to eat. That would not be fair.
“H’are you ’ere?” Bill called up, faintly. “’Ello, lad.”