Kiddie, indeed, received no injury from the madly pounding hoofs. But his back was badly bruised; he was not sure that one or two of his ribs were not broken; and his right ankle was certainly sprained.
It was evident that the Indians had not expected him to be thrown, for they raced past him, and several moments went by before they could swing round.
In those moments Kiddie rolled painfully over on to his knees and elbows. There was no time for him to cut the stirrup strap, or to attempt to get his hurt foot free. All that he could do was to be ready to defend the two precious satchels containing the mails.
Moving himself forward a few inches, so that he could stretch out his right leg and rest his weight on his left knee and elbow, he drew his revolver and levelled it.
He could not now see the Indians. They were hidden beyond a screen of trees and rock. But he heard them as they checked their wild onrush and turned to ride back and do their worst. He was quite ready for them; he had six bullets in his gun, and none should be wasted.
Suddenly amid the confused clatter of hoofs there came to him the sharp, unmistakable crackle of rifle and pistol shots. Then the Indians rushed into sight, galloping in hot haste.
Kiddie fired at two of them, and was shifting his aim to a third, when he realized that they were in flight—that they were being pursued by a horseman who had newly come upon the scene, and who was firing at them with his six-shooter.
Only now did Kiddie reflect that in the ordinary course of his eastward bound trip he would have met the westward going Express rider just at about this same place.
"Alf! Alf Kearney!" he shouted.
The Expressman pulled up short. He had already emptied his revolver, and the Redskins were continuing their flight.