To the great relief of the campers, not another shot was fired in Squaw Valley that night, the attackers having disappeared as mysteriously as they came, nor did the Overton party know whether they had been attacked by white men or Indians.
“All over but the shouting,” cried Hippy, as the day began to dawn, laying his rifle aside. “Hey! What’s that out there?” he demanded, pointing to an object that lay some two hundred yards from the camp.
“I believe it is a horse! Hippy Wingate, we have killed a horse!” exclaimed Grace Harlowe in amazement. “Oh, that is too bad!”
“Burning shame!” chortled Hippy.
“Yes, and there is another one down near the creek,” added Miss Briggs excitedly.
“I did it with my trusty rifle,” cried Hippy boastfully.
“You are welcome to all the glory there is,” answered Grace. “Shall we have a look at the animals? Perhaps we may learn something. Come! We will take our rifles with us.”
The Overton defenders had succeeded better than they knew. Not only had they driven off a superior number of desperate men, but they had shot from under their attackers two horses, and possibly downed as many riders.