Barney and Hale poured in a storm of bullets from their carbines, each one of which held sixteen lives.
Several of the men and horses of the mixed band were wounded, and one red rider was killed outright by the sharp little volley.
Hale’s men dashed up like rockets in the rear.
Their wild terrific cheer rang out like a bugle-note of defense, and their ready rifles cracked sharply.
The band thus forced to stand at bay did not deliberate longer.
The voice of the leader arose above the reports of the guns.
“Fire! shoot down the men in the wagons.”
And then Harry Hale and Barney wisely dropped down into the bottom of the truck, just as the Steam Horse ceased to move, and Frank tumbled from his seat just in time to escape being perfectly riddled by the hail of whistling bullets that passed over his seat just as he fell.
Charley Gorse had just brought the man to a standstill as the order was shouted forth.
He merely ducked his head with an involuntary dive.