The five horsemen were not slow in the execution of their manoeuvre. Once or twice they galloped round us in a wide circle; and then following a spiral curve, drew nearer and nearer.
When within carbine-range, each fired his piece; and, retreating outward upon the main body, hastily exchanged his empty gun for one that was loaded, and galloped back as before.
In the first volley, most of their bullets, discharged at random, had passed over our heads. We heard them hissing in the air high above us. One, however, had been better aimed, and struck Rube’s mare in the hip, causing the old mustang to squeal and kick violently. It did but little damage, though it was an earnest of what we might expect; and it was with increased apprehension that we saw the horsemen come back on their circling career.
You will wonder why we did not return their fire? Our guns carried as far as theirs. Why did we not use them, while the horsemen were within range? Not one of the three of us thought of drawing a trigger! You will wonder at this? It requires explanation.
Know, then, that the five men who galloped round us were five of the best horsemen in the world—no doubt the picked riders of the band. Not in Arabia, not in the hippodromes of Paris or London, could they have found their superiors—perhaps not their equals—for these men literally live in the saddle. Each, as he approached the dangerous circle covered by our rifles, disappeared behind the body of his horse. A boot and spur over the hollow of the deep saddle-tree, perhaps a hand grasping the wither-lock of the horse, were all of the rider that could be seen. Presently a face might be observed, suddenly veiled by a puff of smoke from the carbine, and then ducked instantly out of sight. Perhaps the barrel of the piece might be noticed glancing along the horse’s counter, while the stream of fire pouring forth, told that the rider had taken aim under the throat of his steed, the latter all the while going at full gallop!
During these manoeuvres, sharp shots as my comrades were, and fair marksman as I was myself, there was no instant when we could have hit any one of the five horsemen. It would have been easier to have brought down a bird upon the wing. Their horses we might have killed or crippled, but that would not have repaid us for the risk of an empty rifle. We dared not waste a bullet on the horses. That was our reason for reserving our fire.
Do not fancy from this my prolixity of explanation, that we were so slow in comprehending all these points. No, we understood our situation well enough; we knew that to discharge our pieces—even though a horse should fall to every shot—was just what the enemy desired. That was the main object of their ruse; but we were too well used to the wiles of Indian warfare to be beguiled by so shallow an artifice. Words of caution passed between us, and we stood to our guns with as much patience as we could command.
It was tempting enough—provoking, I should rather say—thus to be fired at, without the chance of returning it; and my companions, notwithstanding their habitual coolness, chafed angrily under the infliction.
Once more the five horsemen came galloping around us, and discharged their pieces as before; but this time with more effect. A bullet struck Garey in the shoulder, tearing away a patch of his hunting-shirt, and drawing the blood; while another went whizzing past the cheek of Old Rube, creasing his catskin cap!
“Hooray!” shouted the latter, clapping his hand over the place where the lead had wounded him. “Clost enough thet wur! Cuss me, eft hain’t carried away one o’ my ears!”