Some of the troopers may have fired at random; but more did not, and down went ponies and riders, while the repeating rifles of the soldiers keeping up their rattle, and deadly rattle it was, checked the onward rush of the redskins, for they wavered, turned, and fled for the shelter of the nearest timber.
The colored troopers were jubilant with delight.
Without a white officer they had beaten off the redskins, who were five to one against them, and killed or wounded a number of braves and ponies.
Sergeant Mobile Buck was a hero of heroes, and he felt it, too. Whatever his men might feel about it, he, at least, was glad he had come. It gave the sergeant confidence, and it helped the men.
One trooper had been killed, shot through the throat with an arrow, and three others slightly wounded.
But the dead man was removed out of sight, and the wounds of the three men dressed, weapons reloaded, the position strengthened, and supper cooked and sent around, for night was at hand.
“I doesn’t like dem dead red Injuns lyin’ out dere,” said a trooper, with an awe of the dead and darkness.
“Never mind, we’ll have more of ’em soon,” said the sergeant.
Then darkness came and the men waited, each man a sentinel, for there was no sleep for those black defenders of the hill that night.
All was silent and darkness, suddenly broken by the words: