“Will you surrender?” Jesse asked, recocking his pistol and presenting it again.
“Never,” was the stern reply. Goss, still reeling in the saddle and bleeding dreadfully.
When the blue white smoke curled up again there was a riderless steed among the trees and a guilty spirit somewhere out in the darkness of the unknown. It took two dragoon revolver bullets to finish this one, and yet James was not satisfied with his work.
There was a preacher along who also had sat himself steadfast in the saddle, and had fought as the best of them did. James rode straight at him after he had finished Goss. The parson’s heart failed him at last, however, and he started to run. James gained upon him at every step. When close enough for a shot, he called out to him:
“Turn about like a man, that I may not shoot you in the back.” The Jayhawker turned, and his face was white and his tongue voluble.
“Don’t shoot me,” he pleaded, “I am the chaplain of the Thirteenth Kansas; my name is U. P. Gardner, I have killed no man, but have prayed for many; spare me.” James did not answer. Perhaps he turned away his head a little as he drew out his revolver. When the smoke lifted, Gardner was dead upon the crisp sere grass with a bullet through his brain.
Maddox, in this fight, killed three of Goss’ men, Gregg five, Press Webb three, Wayman four, Hendrix three, and others one or two each.
The march through the Indian country was one long stretch of ambushments and skirmishes.
Wayman stirred up a hornet’s nest one afternoon, and though stung twice himself quite severely, he killed four Indians in single combat and wounded the fifth who escaped.
Press Webb, hunting the same day for a horse, was ambushed by three Pins and wounded slightly in the arm. He charged singlehanded into the brush and was shot again before he got out of it, but he killed the three Indians and captured three excellent ponies, veritably a god-send to all.