“Fire again,” he shouted, and those who held double-barreled guns poured in a scattering volley, while those who had discharged their single barrels had to make use of their revolvers, a much inferior weapon for such service.
“Shoot, stab or use your butts,” yelled the guide. “Don’t let the red devils mount over the wagons. Keep them outside if we have to go out to them. Here they are.”
And he sent a revolver bullet fairly between the eyes of the foremost redskin on his side.
It was a shrewd trick to divide up the large party, for it fairly weakened the strength of the emigrants greatly to spread them around the inner circle formed by the wagons, and gave them less chance of repulsing a charge close at hand.
Onward with irresistible force the redskins came, and some of them fairly leaped their steeds over the shafts, as the wagons lay together, passing through the narrow gap thus left, and landing fairly among the brave defenders.
They did not last long after they got inside, for Mustang Max gave them his special attention and services, and sent them out of the world flying.
With loud, horrible cries, calculated by the Indians to throw the frightened women into confusion, and thus work a diversion in their favor, the redskins dashed upon the wagons and sought to force a way into the barricade.
They leaped from their horses and clambered over the tops of the seats and over the interlacing shafts and poles.
Like a swarm they came, keeping up their horrid chorus of chilling yells; but Mustang Max had taken good care that the women should have no chance to interfere with the defense.
“Strike hard,” he cried, as he sprang to the breach. “Force them outside and then keep them out.”