They must have been struggling on that side, and pressing against the canvas, for the same blow that let them drop out left a long bleeding gape on the Indian’s bare leg.
Mustang Max promptly picked up the woman, slung her back into the body of the wagon without much ceremony, and promptly put his knife into the Indian’s breast.
Then he leaped back into the thickest of the fight.
With words and blows he encouraged his men, and drove the enemy back over the wagons.
Inch by inch the ground was contested in a bloody manner, but the emigrants were defenders, and brave ones, too, and they struck hard blows for their wives and little ones.
At length the last of the enemy were fairly forced outside the barricade, and then Van Dorn, who found that this thing was not healthy, recalled his men, and gave orders for a retreat.
In a moment they were all mounted upon their horses, and dashed away for a quarter of a mile, less in number by fully a score.
They halted upon the plain, and those who had them, hastened to erect their tents.
Mustang Max, giving orders to clear up the sanguinary marks of the conflict, saw this, and his heart grew heavy.
“Devil take them,” he said.