The Indians by this time had passed on, and then, circling back, prepared for another charge.
Booth had already fired at them three or four times, but owing to the distance, the jumping of the wagon, and the "unsteadiness of his nerves," as he declared, the shots had not decreased to any material extent the number of their assailants.
Down came the red devils again, dividing as before, and delivering another lot of arrows. Hallowell stopped yelling long enough to cry out, "I'm hit again, Cap.!"
Looking around, Booth saw an arrow sticking in Hallowell's head, just over his left ear this time, and hanging down his back like an ornament. He snatched it out, asked Hallowell if it hurt him, but received the same answer as before—"No; not much."
Both were yelling at the top of their voices, the mules were jerking the wagon along at a fearful rate—frightened nearly out of their wits at the sight of the Indians and the shouting and whipping of their drivers. Booth, crawling to the back end of the wagon again and looking out, saw the Indians moving across the trail, preparing for another charge. One old fellow mounted on a black pony was jogging along in the center of the road behind them, quite near, and evidently intent on sending an arrow through the puckered hole of the wagon-sheet. As Booth looked out, the Indian stopped his pony and let fly. Booth dodged back sideways; the arrow sped on in its course, and came whizzing through the hole and struck the black-walnut "lazy-back" of the seat, the head sticking entirely through, the sudden checking causing the feathered end to vibrate rapidly with a vro-o-o-ing sound. With a sudden blow Booth struck it, breaking the shaft from the head, leaving the latter imbedded in the wood.
As quick as he could, Booth rushed to the hole and fired at his aged opponent, but failed to hit him. While he was trying to get another shot at him, an arrow came flying from the left side, and struck him on the inside of the elbow, hitting the nerve or "crazy-bone," which so benumbed his hand and arm that he could not hold on to his revolver, and it dropped from his hand to the road with one load still in its chamber. Just then the mules gave an extra jump, which nearly jerked the wagon from under him, and he fell on the end-gate, evenly balanced, with his hands sprawling outside, attempting to clutch at something to save himself.
At this the Indians gave a terrible yell—of exultation, probably, supposing Booth was going to fall out; but he didn't. He caught hold of one of the wagon-bows and pulled himself in again, terribly scared. It was a "close call" and no mistake!
While all this was going on, Hallowell had not been neglected by the incarnate fiends; about a dozen of them had devoted their time and attention to him, but he had not flinched. Just as Booth had regained his equilibrium and drawn the second revolver from his holster, Hallowell yelled, "Right off to the right, Cap.—quick!"
Booth tumbled over the back of the seat, clutching at a bow to steady himself, and "right off to the right" was an Indian just letting fly at Hallowell. The arrow struck the side of the wagon; Booth at the instant fired at the Indian, missed him of course—but he was badly scared, and throwing himself on the opposite side of his pony, scooted off over the prairie.