From right and left and before, the flankers and van-guard were hustling in, bending low and lashing their horses. Now another report of rifle drifted in; another, and another! Barely pausing in their mad flight, Dan and his two comrades were turning in saddle and aiming to their rear; jets of white smoke sped from the muzzles of their guns, as one after another they fired. For there were the Indians—issuing from the crest of the sand-ridge, as if springing out of holes, and pouring over, down the slope, trying to catch Dan and the other men. They must be Indians, because they flourished lances, and because they were naked, with feathers streaming in the breeze.
But they couldn’t overtake Dan and his men.
Now from the opposite slope echoed more shots. Indians here also! See them come, after that squad of scouts! Why didn’t the trappers get out from the wagons, and help? Why didn’t the cavvy travel faster? What a lot of Indians! And would the wagons be parked, in time, and would there be a hole left for the cavvy? Supposing there wasn’t, and he, Oliver, must stay outside!
“Roust those critters! Roust those critters!” urged the men with Oliver, as in the dust and the hubbub and the excitement they all shrieked together.
Almost crying, in his earnestness, little Oliver did his best.
As fast as they arrived at trot and gallop the wagons swung to right and to left, tongues inside, front wheels locked with hind wheels of the previously arrived, the teams were unhitched, the teamsters knelt to thrust their yagers between the spokes and aim. Smaller and smaller grew the opening, as the oval closed—but amidst yell and murk, in through the opening galloped at last the cavvy, and like the rest little Oliver, breathless, gasping, found himself “forted.”
None too soon was it! Down streamed, on either flank, the foe—a hideously screaming, whooping, feathered, painted foe: riding, many of them bridleless, most of them garmentless, brandishing tufted lance and strung bow, with here and there a gun, face and body daubed lavishly with red and yellow.
“Kiowas!” ran through the wagon-fort the muttered exclamation. And——
“Get out o’ there, you trappers! You Kit Carson men!” rose the angry cry. “Get out o’ yore holes an’ show what you can do!”
But from within the wagons answered never a sound nor a stir.