CHAPTER XVI.
A Good Shot—The White Horse—Approaching Help—Only a Flea-bite—A Shout of Joy—Raising the Siege—An Indian Panic—The Pursuit—Recovering my Senses—For the Last Time—A Bead and no Powder—Bare Feet and the Sharp "Shale"—Heroic Self-sacrifice—A Rapid and Dashing Rescue.
The hour of suspense which followed their having left the camp, was terrible. Every moment of it passed so slowly, that it appeared to be winged with lead. Each instant we were expecting to hear the crack of fire-arms, or the sound of a fierce struggle—not for life, but death. As the minutes passed slowly away, at length we began to realize the fact that they might have succeeded in passing undetected through the midst of the slumbering Indians. This belief gradually ripened into a positive certainty.
Brighton Bill was the first of us who found sufficient hardihood to give voice to this. Bringing down his hand with a ringing slap upon his thigh, he blurted out:
"May H'i be blamed, hif pluck don't pay hafter h'all. The boys hare safe."
"I'll bet they are," said Stanaford with a round oath. "The red skunks haven't nabbed 'em."
And so, that night, for the first time in three days, I was able to get some few hours of slumber, and woke with something akin to hope stirring in my bosom.
This day the Indians conducted themselves much as they had before done. We, however, were more prudent, and wasted no more ammunition save when we were sure of one of them. They, also, when they saw this, grew more cautious. Possibly, they were reasoning on our condition from the same stand-point we did ourselves. Seeing we wasted no more powder, they were probably reckoning that it was getting smaller in quantity, and thought it useless to run any more risk, until we were starved into making a dash for the open.