Search was immediately made through the hills, the Indians believing that he had fled in that direction, as none of them coming from the plains had met him.
This search continued for a long time, when, after they had abandoned it as useless, one brave noticed the dirt displaced by the scout’s feet in springing over the precipice. That told the tale, and, fairly wild with anger, the Indians rushed down and attacked the corral, fighting with a desperate fury worthy a better cause.
But they were as bravely met. Rifle-shots answered arrow-flights, until the strife became hand-to-hand. Over the barricades swarmed the painted demons, until the interior was filled with a confused mass of writhing, struggling humanity, battling furiously, desperately.
But then came a glad sound to the ears of the overpowered whites—the loud, hearty cheer, emanating from unmistakably white men’s throats. Then the thundering of many hoofs—the sharp cracking of carbines and revolvers.
Fully as well did the Arapahoes recognize those shouts; they had heard similar ones before, and they knew too well the prowess of the boys in blue, to stand and wait their close acquaintance.
There uprose the cry of retreat—and, like one man, the red-skins tore themselves free from their antagonists, and fled, on foot, on horseback, as fate favored them.
And among them the soldiers raged furiously, led by Travers, Ayres and Delaware Tom. The latter fairly outdid himself, and returned with girdle literally crowded with scalps.
There is but little more to add.
That was a glad meeting between Buenos and Calhoun, especially when the young man announced the safety of Clara. He was truly the lion of the hour, but he bore his honors with becoming meekness.
Then when the stragglers had all come in, the dead whites were collected and afforded a Christian burial. It was a melancholy sight, and not one dry eye—unless it might be those of Delaware Tom, who was not remarkable for his sensitiveness—was there in the encampment.