Chapter Eighteen.
Defence of the Ranch of Roaring Bull.
Every light and every spark of fire had been extinguished in the ranch of Roaring Bull when its defenders issued from its doorway. They were armed to the teeth, and glided across the yard to the fence or stockade that enclosed the buildings, leaving the door slightly open so as to be ready for speedy retreat.
It had been arranged that, as there was a large open field without bush or tree in the rear of the ranch, they should leave that side undefended at first.
“They’ll never come into the open as long as they can crawl up through the bush,” Jackson had said, while making his final dispositions. “They’re a’most sure to come up in front thinkin’ we’re all a-bed. Now, mind—don’t stand still, boys, but walk along as ye fire, to give ’em the notion there’s more of us. An’ don’t fire at nothin’. They’d think we was in a funk. An’ when you hear me whistle get into the house as quick as a cotton-tail rabbit an’ as sly as a snake.”
After the moon went down, everything in and around the ranch was as silent as the grave, save now and then the stamp of a hoof on the floor of a shed, where a number of horses stood saddled and bridled ready to mount at a moment’s notice; for Jackson had made up his mind, if it came to the worst, to mount and make a bold dash with all his household through the midst of his foes, trusting to taking them by surprise and to his knowledge of the country for success.
For a long time, probably two hours, the three men stood at their posts motionless and silent; still there was no sign, either by sight or sound, of an enemy. The outline of the dark woods was barely visible against the black sky in front of each solitary watcher, and no moving thing could be distinguished in the open field behind either by Crux or Darvall, to each of whom the field was visible. Jackson guarded the front.
To Dick, unaccustomed as he was to such warfare, the situation was very trying, and might have told on his nerves severely if he had not been a man of iron mould; as it was, he had no nerves to speak of! But he was a man of lively imagination. More than fifty times within those two hours did he see a black form moving in the darkness that lay between him and the wood, and more than fifty times was his Winchester rifle raised to his shoulder; but as often did the caution “don’t fire at nothin’” rise to his memory.