The surging crowd round Jim and the Indians heard the wild cry from the mesa top and the shouts and threats were stilled as if by magic. There was a moment of restless silence. That cry was a primordial thing, as well understood by every man in the mob as if he had heard it always. It was the cry of the hunted and the hunter. It was the night cry of forests. It was war with naked hands, death under lonely skies.
Jim called: "Some one is bound to get killed if you boys don't clear out. I'm not armed but a number of you are and the Indians are. If there are any of my Makon boys here, I want them to come over here and help me."
"Coming, Boss!" called a voice. "Only a few of the best of us here."
"You'll stay where you are," roared a big Irishman.
"Rush 'em, boys! Rush 'em! They don't dare to shoot!"
Old Suma-theek absent-mindedly sighted his gun in the direction of the last remark.
"Get a ladder! Get on top of the station. Altogether, boys!"
Fighting through the mob, half a dozen men suddenly ranged themselves with the Indians.
"Come into us!" one of them shrieked. "I ain't had a fight since I killed six Irishmen on the Makon and ate 'em for breakfast."
There was a swaying, a sudden closing of the crowd, when down from the mesa rushed old Suma-theek's bucks. They swept the mob aside like flying sand and closed about the little group against the wall. They were a very splendid picture in the arc light, these forty young bucks with their flying hair and plunging ponies. The moment must have been one of unmixed joy to them as the whites gave back, leaving them the street width.