Chapter Thirty Three.
A Running-Shot.
Though our enemies were once more in motion, we no longer anticipated a direct attack; the time for that had passed. The fate of their comrade had evidently checked their ardour, and too much shouting and bravado had cooled, rather than heightened, their enthusiasm.
We could tell by their manoeuvring that some new mode of assault had been planned, and was about to be practised.
“Cowardly skunks!” muttered Rube; “they hain’t the pluck to charge us! Who ever heerd o’ fair fight in a Mexikin? Damn ’em, thur arter some trick,” he continued, in a more serious tone. “What do ’ee think it be, Billee?”
“I’m thinkin’, old boy,” replied Garey, whose keen grey eye had been for some time fixed on the movements of the guerrilla—“I’m thinkin’ thar a-goin to gallup roun, an try a shot at us Injun fashion.”
“Yur right,” assented Rube; “thet’s thur game! Scalp me ef ’taint! Look yanner!—thur they go!”
The horsemen were no longer in line, nor formed in any fashion. Irregularly grouped, they exhibited a “clump” upon the prairie, some standing still, others in motion.
As Rube uttered the last words, one of them was seen to shoot out from the main body, spurring his steed into a gallop as he parted from the crowd.