Nobly they leaped forward at the word, but the foe was a desperate one, and were not to be easily driven off.
Many a redskin went down clutching a white man in his arms, and their lives would flow out with their mingling blood as they lay upon the ground in that deadly embrace.
Mustang Max fought like a demon, and did more than any three other men in the party.
With that terrible battle-smile playing over his noble face, he stalked among his foes.
He seemed to bear a charmed life: to covet danger; to laugh at death; the Indians felt a holy horror of coming in his way when they looked upon him, and therefore he was not as strongly opposed as a less terrible foe would have been.
A scream rang out from one of the wagons, as the guide sprang upon an Indian who stood near it.
Mustang Max guessed instantly what the cry meant.
An Indian had cut his way through one of the canvas sides, and was now among the women.
With a swift blow he struck down the redskin in his path, and drawing his keen knife, he slashed the side of the cover with a strong blow.
Out tumbled an Indian and a white woman for the red rascal had clasped her in his arms.