This variously-colored fire streamed up in a brilliant series of columns, casting a wonderful and beautiful light upon the steel-clad form of the boy-driver who guided the rapid motions of the Steam Horse.
Yells of terror from the red men, and shouts of wonder from the white ones, now filled the air, and then something took place that Frank Reade had not reckoned upon.
The bandits, terrified and demoralized by the flaming advent of Frank Reade and his Steam Horse, turned from the brightly flaming wagon and dashed towards the mouth of the pass.
The emigrants lay there on guard, for they were ready to battle their lives away in defense of their dear ones, and when the frightened mass of men mounted and on foot rushed madly towards them their ready weapons flashed brightly in the light of Frank’s chemical fires.
A deep-toned voice, the voice of a man born to be a leader, rang out clear and thrilling above the din:
“Fire!”
Crash!
The thundering voices of a score of rifles spoke out sharply and the answering yells of pain told that many a bullet had found a living mark.
Frank chased them up when he saw the turn affairs had taken, and thus they were forced to continue on in their desperate charge up the pass.
The emigrants stood firm, and in less than a moment the two parties came together with an obstinate crash.