Don was walking beside his team, two little girls quite near him. He caught them up and almost threw them into his wagon, telling them to lie down and keep quiet and still; then turned and pulled out a revolver.
Others had acted with equal quickness, and were ready—some from their wagons, some from the ground—to fire upon the advancing foe.
There was a brief, sharp fight; the Indians were driven off, carrying their killed and wounded with them.
Then it was found that Rupert was missing, Smith badly wounded, one or two others slightly, while Don lay insensible and bleeding on the ground near his wagon.
They at first thought him dead, but he had only fainted from loss of blood, and they presently succeeded in bringing him to.
"Rupert? my brother—where is he?" he asked in the first moment of consciousness.
"Those red devils have done for him, Don," Morton answered, with a tremble in his voice; "the shot that tumbled him from his horse was the first intimation we had that they were upon us."
Don groaned and hid his face.
"Don't take it so hard," said a pitying woman's voice; "he's gone to a better place; we all know that; nobody could be with him a day and not see that he was a real Christian."
"That's so." "True enough, Mrs. Stone." "I only wish we were all as ready for heaven," responded one and another.