“Arrah now, be aisy,” said Barney Shea, who was in his glory; “sure ye’d not be afther lavin’ such an illigant bit of a ruction as this same widout gittin’ yer bellyful. Ooh, would yez moind that, Masther Frank?”
And with a triple-twisted blow he smashed an Indian’s nose all over his face, thumped him in the pit of the stomach with the end of the stick, and as the poor red doubled up he gave him a rousing one over the top-knot that stretched him out quivering.
And Pomp was knocking them down right and left, for the iron bar proved a terrible weapon in his hands.
But they had accomplished all that they had come for, and Frank gave the order in a peremptory tone:
“To the wagons.”
They all obeyed, springing to the wagons at the word of command, and the last one being Jared Dwight, who delayed a moment to finish up accounts with a tall redskin.
“Ready,” shouted Frank.
“Ready,” shouted back his cousin Charley.
“Go.”
And then the reins were pulled.