“Easy!” said the giant. “She is safe, and you shall both speak with her in a few minutes. It is Meno, the Spirit Warrior! He never harms the whites—he is their friend; and he’ll carry the gal to a place of safety. Git yer rifles ready. When ye see Injuns, fire sure, and don’t miss a shot. After yer rifles are emptied, git out yer pistols and shoot down ther devils as long as yer have a load left! They won’t show fight much after the accident that’s jist happened to ’em!”
A moment later they had left the timber behind, and were dashing across the little strip of prairie that lay between it and the encampment, but a few rods distant.
The four unerring rifles rung out almost simultaneously, and four savages lay dead or dying on the ground.
“Now yer pistols!” shouted the giant, plunging his spurs into his horse’s flanks, and drawing and cocking his heavy Colt’s revolver.
On they sped, their firearms keeping up an incessant rattle, dealing death on all sides.
They charged through the encampment, then, whirling, came back, separating and shooting down every brave in their path, as long as they had a load left.
The giant caught sight of Ku-nan-gu-no-nah trying to hide himself behind one of the lodges, and leaping from his horse, dragged the cowed and trembling fiend out into the middle of the encampment, shrieking and howling with fear.
“It’s time we had a sort of a settlement!” said the giant, grimly. “I guess we’ll look over our accounts now.”
The Indians, men, women and children, such as had not fallen before the terrible Phantom Rider and the subsequent charge of the four hunters, had sought refuge in the forest and thick brushwood growing on the summit of the steep, rocky acclivity at the back of the encampment.
To the credit of our friends, be it said, that they shot down only the braves. For the most part, the squaws and children escaped unharmed, but with the exception of Ku-nan-gu-no-nah and a half-dozen others, every warrior was slain.