“Well done!” remarked Pedro to his companions, all of whom had taken part in the volley. “We killed none, but made them howl, nevertheless.”
Cool, deliberate, noble Pedro was himself again—the far-famed scout and feared Indian-fighter. Now was his brain clear; now were his nerves steady; and the famous master of Indian strategy was rapidly running down his No. 1 buckshot, with eyes sparkling like a ferret’s.
“Senors—sirs, fire not hastily. It is a fault with you Americans—you are not sufficiently aware of the importance of keeping cool. See! they have quite concealed themselves; never mind, we are entirely safe, well ammunitioned, and able to prevent them from plundering the wagons. Keep cool, watch every point, and when you fire be sure and aim.”
“I hope they won’t hurt any of my tin cups,” anxiously muttered Duncan. “We haven’t got but five, and one of them leaks. It’ll be just like ’em to go and eat all my brown sugar up—oh, my boot-heels! if they do how I’ll get cussed. If the President of the United States was struck by lightning you fellers ’d cuss me, and say I was to blame.”
“Less talking, senor, if you please,” gently admonished Pedro. “‘All tongue no sand,’ as Simpson says.”
A few minutes passed, and suddenly Duncan broke out again:
“Every hair of my head! Save it—oh, save it, for heaven’s sake!”
“Save what?” asked Robidoux.
“Don’t you see that small stream running down through the wagon-bottom?”
“I see something dark, I think. What is it?”