The knoll was quite near now, being not more than three hundred yards distant. The coming savages were at least a mile away. The whites had the start.
A minute more and they dashed up in a body to the knoll.
It was as they had expected; the train was grouped behind it, every one being in hapless confusion with the exception of Burt, who was loudly swearing at the utter disregard of his orders by the two Robidoux.
Duncan was scuttling about among his tin dishes and kettles in his wagon, trying to find his favorite weapon—a dull butcher-knife, with a blade like a hand-saw. The utmost confusion prevailed.
However, the arrival of the main body in some degree quieted the teamsters and restored order.
Suddenly the coming Apaches, now about a half-mile distant, drew up their mustangs, and grouping, stared keenly at the train. They had seen the horsemen suddenly arrive to sustain the small band they were swooping down upon.
Cimarron Jack was in his element. Taking, with the characteristic promptness of a veteran Indian-fighter, advantage of their hesitation, he sprung from his horse.
“Now, fly ’round!” he commanded. “Stir your stumps, you fellows!” pointing to the Canadians. “You, Louis, drive your team ahead ten feet!”
The man obeyed, quieted by the magnetic influence which Jack always possessed when in danger.
“Now, Duncan—blast your nervous, excitable hide! drive alongside Louis!”