Again the mustang nickered, shriller and wilder than before. He was about to resume, when a wild, unearthly yell broke upon the quiet night air—a yell as if Pandemonium had broken loose. Starting back with fear, he clasped his hands, then ran to the entrance and flung it open.
He closed it as quickly, if not sooner, as a rumbling sound came from behind the hillock, a sound of thundering hoofs, and the hideous yell pealed again; then, as he peeped through a chink, he saw the cause.
Riding like wild-fire, screaming and whooping, came a dozen Indians, charging on the wagons from behind the hill. Clustering together with tossing arms, they rode swoop down upon them. He started down, then ran quickly to Pedro.
“Pedro—Pedro Felipe—wake up—arise; we are charged by Apaches.”
At the word Apaches Pedro rose suddenly, from sheer habit, as his eye was vacant, and his air that of a somnambulist; his energy was short-lived, and he sunk down again.
“Pedro—for heaven’s sake get your gun; we are attacked.”
“Have you seen it?”
“Seen them? Yes; they are yelling outside—don’t you hear them? Come, hurry!”
“Have they got my gold?”
Robidoux was sharp enough to take advantage of this question, and he replied: