Swarming round among the stationary train were over a score of running, twisting, gliding Indians, overrunning the wagon, busily engaged in unhitching the draft-horses, while more were galloping over the plain striving to lariat the saddle horses, which had taken fright and galloped away. They were busy as bees, and were swarming round like them. Thirty running, robbing Indians make a larger show than fifty whites, they are so much more agile and quick.
Selecting a burly knave close by, who was trying to burst a stout tobacco caddy, he took a long, deliberate aim and fired, then drawing his Colt’s six-shooter, commenced firing rapidly, yelling like a demon.
The large Indian fell dead on his breast, with a gurgling groan; and the precise and correctly aimed revolver wounded two more, who dropped, then rose and staggered away.
Like magic, the work of plunder ceased. Individually dropping their occupations, the savages sharply looked round for the cause of the sudden and fatal volley, but as Jack had slunk back into the cave they saw nothing. Then they became wildly alarmed, all their hereditary superstitions crowding one upon another, and began to retreat.
Cimarron Jack strove to organize his men, in order to make a sudden onslaught, which would be more efficacious than a volley from the hill, as the savages would be frightened out of their wits at seeing them rise from the ground. But surprised, the “green” ones clustered together like sheep, paying no attention to his oaths and orders, and before he could begin to reassure them, the savages had mounted their mustangs, and with the stolen draft-horses, went away like the wind, a large and scared band of thirty, headed by the malevolent chief, Red-Knife.
“Give ’em a volley before they get away!” he cried, leveling his reloaded rifle and firing. The guide, Sam and Burt followed his example, but only one shot took effect—a retreating savage rolled from his mustang, which sprung away riderless. The others were too surprised to fire.
Jack started out into the plain.
“Jerusalem! look at ’em skedaddling off with every cussed draft horse. Whew! mount as quick as you can, boys, and after ’em. Lively, now!”
The moonlight revealed an exciting scene. Away toward the south-east, riding like the wind, were seven and twenty Apaches, fleeing from some unknown terror, with a dozen draft-horses led after them. Two reeled in their saddles, one growing faint and scarcely able to cling to his mustang; the other, though weak from loss of blood, still managed to preserve his balance, though clumsily; they were the victims of Cimarron Jack’s proficiency with fire-arms. One mustang was riderless—the one from which the last savage had been shot; and he galloped along with his mounted companions, his side streaked with blood.
Behind were several men out on the plain by the hillock, coaxing their runaway steeds to them. It was a tedious, long task, as they had been frightened in good earnest.