The sharp report of a rifle interrupted him. He was half turned about in his saddle and held the reins loosely in one hand. His right hand rested on his horse’s back as he looked around at his companions. The rifle ball struck him squarely in the right forearm and nearly precipitated him from the saddle. At the same time his horse jumped and only superb horsemanship saved the man from being thrown to the ground.
“Are you hurt?” cried Robert anxiously.
“In the arm. It isn’t anything,” said Mason quickly.
“Can you ride all right?” demanded Joseph.
“Of course I can.”
“Then we’d better waste no time. Just look back there!”
One glance was sufficient. Behind them and coming on at full speed was a war party of over one hundred Indians. Once more the two brothers heard the war whoop resound over the plains and again they fled for their lives.
“Make for the fort!” cried Mason. He set spurs to his horse and closely followed by the three others raced for the blockhouse looming up before them. The yells of the Indians sounded in their ears, while bullets cut the air all about them.
Joseph soon outdistanced the others, owing to the superior speed of The Swallow, and he was the first to arrive at the fort. His comrades were not far behind, however, and as they came within the protection of the stockade they were greeted by a cheer from the occupants who had watched the thrilling race with breathless interest. At the same time a volley from the rifles of the defenders caused the Indians to halt abruptly.
A moment later the four messengers were inside the fort and were preparing to assist in its defense. Men, women and children were there, all gathered from the nearby cabins and surrounding farms. John Mason’s wound quickly received attention and was found to be not at all serious. When it had been bathed and bound up he was even able to handle his gun.