From under the projecting bluff darted nine stalwart Apaches, knives and tomahawks in hand. They had seen their comrades’ utter helplessness and discomfiture, and looking over the smoke of the volley, had seen four shot and instantly killed. Burning with rage and chagrin, they were coming, fifty yards away, with determined faces gleaming hideously through the red war-paint.
As they rapidly drew near, Jack cried:
“Work those pistols lively, boys—shoot a thousand times a minute.”
They obeyed. Crack—crack! went the pistols, and, though excited, the aim was tolerably correct, and two Indians went down, one killed, another disabled. Seven still came on, though warily, facing the revolvers of the whites, Colt’s great invention doing deadly work at a short distance. They were running at a dog-trot, dodging and darting from side to side to prevent any aim being taken; in another moment they were fighting hand to hand.
It was a short, deadly struggle, briefly terminated. Jack, Simpson, and Burt fell to the ground when their respective antagonists were nigh, avoiding the tomahawks which flew over their heads. Then as an Apache towered over each, they rose suddenly, and throwing their entire weight and muscle into the act, plunged their knives into the savage breasts; the red-skins fell without a groan.
It was a perilous, nice operation, and few would have dared attempt it; but knowing if they kept their nerve and temper they would prove victorious, they accepted the chances, as we have seen, with the highest success. Calculating nicely, each had about an interval of two seconds to work in—the interval between the Apaches’ arrival and his downward knife-thrust.
Gigantic, fiery Jack stayed not to enjoy a second and sure thrust, but withdrawing his long knife, hastily glanced around. Back under the bank was a man fighting desperately with two Apaches—fighting warily, yet strongly, and in silence.
It was Carpenter, cutting, thrusting, and dodging. Jack needed but a glance to satisfy him Carpenter would soon prove a victim to the superior prowess of the Apaches, and with a wild hurrah sprung forward, just as Burt and the guide were disengaging themselves from the dead bodies of their antagonists. But, he was stopped suddenly.
Covered with mud, dripping with water, and glowing with rage and heat, a fierce, stalwart savage sprung before him, and he knew him in a moment. It was Red-Knife—he had escaped from the quicksand and was now preparing to strike, his tomahawk glinting above his head.
“Dog from the bitter river—squaw! ugh!” and down went the hatchet.