“Here’s one for you, poor little Fan!” he said, pulling his revolver and shooting the suffering horse through the head.
“And I must save one for you, too, Dot,” he said, to the inanimate form of his wife, as he picked her up and placed her behind the body of the horse where the Indian bullets could not reach her.
Kneeling there, the carbine now began to talk rapidly and several more ponies galloped away riderless.
He did not mind the bullets spatting about him in the sand and into the carcass of the horse—they could not reach her.
Yes, he could feel a burning sensation in his shoulder; a red-hot band suddenly encircled his body; blood was running into his eyes from a “scratch” on the head, somewhere.
The carbine was empty now and the revolver came into play. That, too, was empty except for one chamber—he had carefully kept count.
The savages were almost upon him, yelling, shooting, wielding knives and tomahawks, as he arose to his full height and drew his last weapon, his knife.
“They’re too many for me,” he said, “but they shall not have you, Dot!” and he took careful aim at the white, upturned brow.
“I saved this for you——”
The sentence and the deed were never completed, for a bullet sent him headlong, as the red riders swarmed about.