He threw forward his rifle.
“Ready!” said he.
The other weapons went forward; eight black muzzles peered out at the oncoming savages.
“Fire!” said Crockett.
The rifles spoke sharply; down in their tracks went several of the mustangs; and several others went dashing riderless across the prairie. Shrill yells went up from the Comanches; their ponies, startled at the sudden blaze of fire from ahead, and the fall of their fellows, reared, bucked, and tried to bolt off to one side. The Comanches fought with their mounts and at last headed them around, together, in the proper direction. But by this time the whites had reloaded.
“Fire!” ordered Colonel Crockett, once more.
Again the rifles cracked; and down went more horses and riders in a plunging heap, while the savage band, unable to face the deadly tubes which threw death into their faces, turned and bounded away over the grassy plain beyond range of the white men’s fire.
Crockett rammed a fresh charge home.
“Good shooting,” said he, approvingly. “One way or another, boys, we’ve accounted for a full dozen of the red rapscallions.”
The old Texan, together with the others, was also charging his piece.