But the rush was too impetuous even for a volley to check, and the next moment the Indians piled into the grove.
The prospectors met them bravely, and it was lucky for them that the darkness of the night was in their favor, for, greatly outnumbered as they were, they must have inevitably been gobbled up by their savage foes.
A hand-to-hand fight in the dark is always a terrible thing.
One is as apt to strike a deadly blow at a friend as at a foe.
It is difficult to fight, even at arm’s length, in the gloom, and this causes foes to grapple, making the contest a deadly one.
Ralph Radcliffe was not old enough nor large enough to contend with any of the enemy, and therefore got out of the way of danger by burying himself in a cluster of bushes.
The thundering sound of mighty feet were heard on the hard roadway of the plains, a bright light, steady and brilliant, suddenly shot up, a ringing cheer from four throats, mingled with a clear whistle, and then the Steam Man and the four brave fellows it brought to the rescue, dashed swiftly up to the grove.
The man came to a sudden halt about ten feet from the trees, and, with Harry Hale at their head, the four rough customers leaped from the wagon to the ground.
“Hurrah!” they yelled, and leaped like tigers into the thickest of the fight, the spot where Pomp was slashing left and right, dealing telling blows with his long, heavy knife.
The detective came upon the redskins like a miniature tornado, and his path was marked with the bodies of the fallen slain.