The Indians had procured a number of logs, and were now busied in rolling them up toward the corral, evidently hoping to thus gain a position from whence they could securely pick off the defenders of the wagon-train at their own leisure.
“What is to be done, now, Tom?” and the major could not entirely conceal his uneasiness as he spoke.
“Why, jest kill a dozen o’ them loggerheads, an’ then the others’ll take the hint an’ leave.”
“But how?”
“Shoot ’em, in course. You don’t s’pose they’ll let you git cluss enough to do any thin’ else, do ye?”
“But they’re hid behind the logs.”
“Ef they keeps hid all the time, they won’t do overly much damage a-shootin’, shore. No, sir! When a feller shoots, his head hes got to be as high as the bar’l, an’ ef it’s atop o’ the log, why don’t you see? his head must be thar too, in course, onless he’s cross-eyed an’ kin shoot roun’ the corner,” argued Tom.
“Then you mean to—?”
“I reckon. We’ll try it, anyhow, jest for beans. You feller, go an’ send Wilson an’ Texas Joe here, quicker!”
In a few moments the two men designated were at hand, and then Maxwell directed them what to do. The logs were now within fifty yards of the outer wagons, and were still drawing yet nearer, though slowly.