“Cheyenne an’ ’Rapahoe,” muttered William New. “Wagh! I wonder if they know what they’re doing?”
Oliver anxiously watched the cannoneers. How rapidly they worked. Sergeant Zindel evidently understood his business. With jerky stiffness he bustled hither, thither—but already the piece had been swung about, to open down the bottom-land, a load in red flannel bag had been rammed home, and Jacob Dodson was thrusting after it a case of canister.
“R-r-ready!” ordered Sergeant Zindel, squinting along the breech, while Jacob turned the elevating screw. He sprang up, blowing a match or slow-fire fuse. “Back mit you! Back-vaaerts, all!” And Jacob and the two other helpers recoiled, out of range of the imminent explosion.
“The blame fools!” muttered William New, at the Indians. “They’ll be blown to smithereens. Wagh! they will! It’ll rain scalps.”
The racing reds now were scarce two hundred yards away, charging madly, hammering their ponies’ flanks with moccasined heel, urging to top speed.
“Feuer!” shouted stanch Sergeant Zindel, suddenly advancing his slow-match to touch-hole—and Oliver’s eyes leaped to see the enemy shrivel and scatter. But——
“Wait!” commanded Lieutenant Frémont, springing to arrest the sergeant’s hand. And——
“Wait!” cried Kit Carson, running out, his hand high.
For just at the instant the Indians, as if they had noted whom they were charging, in mid-pace had hauled their ponies short, and ploughing up the sod had stopped in a jumbled mass of wildly tossing riders.
“Just in time, by thunder,” exclaimed William New. “Another minute, an’ thar’d ’a been more meat than buff’ler meat scattered about on this hyar bottom. Wagh!”