One or two of the emigrants fell, badly wounded, but none were killed by the random fire.
“Ready!” yelled Mustang Max.
Every muzzle was directed outwards as the foe came rushing up with a reckless burst of speed.
“Fire!”
The thundering rattle of the guns followed closely on the order.
A chorus of cries, a concert of yells and groans rang out.
Near at hand pealed forth shrill whistles in quick succession, and two streams of tapering light flashed with far-reaching radiance over the prairie.
The Steam Man and the Steam Horse were at hand.
Like meteors they sped over the course, level as a trotting road, and bore down upon the wagons.
The Indians were trying to carry Mustang Max’s barricade by storm when the loud whistles sounded.