The sun had set, at least it seemed so, in the dismal ravine where we were. We were growing impatient for the appearance of our enemy.
“Perhaps they have gone round,” suggested one.
“No; thar a-waitin’ till night. They’ll try it then.”
“Let ’em wait, then,” muttered Rube, “ef thur green enuf. A half an hour more’ll do; or this child don’t understan’ weather signs.”
“Hist! hist!” cried several voices together. “See; they are coming!”
All eyes were bent down the pass. A crowd of dark objects appeared in the distance, filling up the bed of the stream. They were the Indians, and on horseback. We knew from this that they were about to make a dash. Their movements, too, confirmed it. They had formed two deep, and held their bows ready to deliver a flight of arrows as they galloped up.
“Look out, boyees!” cried Rube; “thur a-comin’ now in airnest. Look to yur sights, and give ’em gos; do ’ee hear?”
As the trapper spoke, two hundred voices broke into a simultaneous yell. It was the war-cry of the Navajoes!
As its vengeful notes rang upon the cañon, they were answered by loud cheers from the hunters, mingled with the wild whoops of their Delaware and Shawano allies.
The Indians halted for a moment beyond the narrowing of the cañon, until those who were rearmost should close up. Then, uttering another cry, they dashed forward into the gap.