The fight was ended; the Indians defeated, away they sped with lightning speed, bearing their wounded, among which was Mr. Harwood's special adversary, with them, and leaving their dead upon the ground.
Of these there were two. But little notice was taken of them at first, for the members of the train were too busy attending to the wounded, and examining their own hurts, to think of Indians, unless it was to look occasionally to satisfy themselves that they were really gone, and that there was no farther trouble to be apprehended from them.
"I wonder who it was that knocked that great fellow over that was holding me down," said Mr. Harwood, after he had embraced his family, and assured them that he was very little hurt. "I wish I knew who it was, I have somebody to thank for saving my life."
"Here is the fellow!" cried Gus, catching Guy as he was about to jump from the wagon. "He has got one of your guns, too, and it was only a little while ago you told him not to touch them."
"Guy!" exclaimed Mr. Harwood, "can it be possible that you fired that well-directed shot?"
"I couldn't help it, sir, the ball seemed to know just where to go, and the gun to shoot of itself," returned Guy, with a slight laugh—a vain attempt to hide his emotion.
Mr. Harwood made no effort to conceal his, and catching him in his arms embraced him warmly, as he exclaimed: "My dear boy, have I then my own life to thank you for, as well as that of my son? How shall I be able to repay you?"
"Don't say any more," entreated Guy, who was being nearly suffocated by his mother, Mr. Harwood and the children, who were pulling him hither and thither to their heart's content.
"Why didn't you shoot his head right off?" ask George, when the commotion had slightly subsided. "I would if I had had a gun, and been in your place."