Pistols cracked, bullets went whistling in the air, knives spun over and over in the various lights streaming up in columns from the wagon attached to the Steam Horse, tomahawks clashed against rifle butts, savage oaths were met by savage yells, and the life-blood of the contending factions rapidly stained the field.
And through it all Frank Reade lay under the wagon senseless, his head just a few inches back of the hind hoofs of the Steam Horse.
Some of the men who had shot at him, supposing him to be dead, wished to secure the wonderful suit in which he was habited.
Three of them had shot at him, three white men, and one of them now called to the others:
“Go for the boy. If he’s dead we want his suit, and if he’s only wounded, we want his body. We can wipe this crowd out easy enough.”
“Lead on,” cried the other two, and the trio fairly fought their way out from the thickest of the battle, and made a dash for the wagon.
Barney Shea did good service.
Once in his life he had thrown a knife, and had plugged his enemy fairly in the back.
This gave him the idea that he was a straight shot, so when he saw those three chaps making for the wagon, he picked up a heavy tomahawk and hurled it at them.
He didn’t make a remarkably accurate throw this time, but it resulted better by far than he had expected.