“A cross-fire!” ejaculated Jack. “Pile into the wagons, boys—lively now.”
He was already half-way into the nearest wagon. The men stopped not to reflect—they knew that under a cross-fire they would soon be cut to pieces, and helter-skelter they scrambled, each into the nearest wagon.
As it happened, the guide and Sam were in the same wagon with Cimarron Jack. In the next, and center one, were the remainder, huddled in the bottom, to escape the bullets which would easily pierce the canvas cap-tents.
“Blast it! the horses will git shot—every blamed one of ’em,” declared Simpson, in disgust. “They’ve got a fair, square aim at ’em—rot their red hides. Cuss an Injun, anyhow. Thar’s no knowin’ what they’ll do, nor when they’ll do it.”
A rejoinder was made in the shape of a bullet which “sung” through the wagon-cover just above his head; he dodged, and growled, “Lucky we ain’t outside now.”
“It is, indeed,” rejoined Sam; “very fortunate. We should have thought of this contingency.”
It was a singular oversight. In the manner in which the wagons were placed, a sort of lane was formed by them and the supporting knoll. The savages, at opposite sides, could bring to bear a heavy cross fire through the lane; they were doing it now, hence the whites’ alarm.
For a few moments a perfect hailstorm of bullets rattled against the wagons, but no one was struck; then they ceased to bury themselves in the woodwork.
“They’ve emptied their barrels,” Jack said, with a contemptuous smile. “The more fools they—now just stick your heads out, boys, and pepper ’em while they can’t return it!” he added, in a loud voice.
“Le’s both go fur Red-Knife,” whispered the guide.