And then he sheathed his knife in the chieftain’s heart.
Their leader dead, the rest sought to fly from the overwhelming force, but the villagers were determined to exterminate them, and with rude but effective weapons they hemmed them in and cut them down.
The terrible battle was short and sharp, but it was a decisive victory for the long-suffering villagers.
Many of their number lay dead upon the ground, but of all that gayly-dressed band that came riding in not one was left to ride out again, for the band was completely wiped out.
“Worra, worra!” cried Barney Shea, as he put some balsam on a wound in his left arm. “Did anybody iver see the loikes of this counthry for ructions? I’d loike to attind a wake in this land.”
[CHAPTER XXXII.]
AT LAST.
The long day wore wearily away to the penned-up emigrants inclosed in their cluster of wagons, and the night drew on apace, but brought them no relief.
Suddenly Mustang Max bethought himself of a forgotten circumstance.
When Frank Reade left him he gave him one of his prepared rockets, with instructions how to use it, and told the tall guide that he might chance to see it and come to his aid if sent up at night when he was in peril.