And Ross, of the Captain's roan.
They ride till the crickets have sought the shade;
They ride till the sun-motes glance;
And they have espied on a far hillside
The whirl of the Sioux scalp-dance.
Then it's up past the smouldering stage-house barn
And out by the well-curb's marge;
The Sioux are a-leap for the tether-ropes:—
"Revolvers! Guide centre! Charge!"
The Sioux, they flee like a wild wolf-pack