Yelling shrilly, the savages opened fire, never pausing to take aim. Their shots, indeed, were more dangerous to themselves than to their intended victims. One of their own horses stumbled and rolled over on its rider, struck by a stray bullet.
"They're having a nice picnic, so far," said Silk, talking for the mere sake of encouraging his companion. "If they keep this up long enough, the racket'll be heard in Emerald Cañon. Wind's from the right quarter. But they're only bluffing now—playing with us. Soon, they'll rush us. It's their way. There!"
The Indian chief had suddenly wheeled within the galloping circle, throwing his pony back with a jerk on its haunches. The warriors came up to him one by one, halting all together in a compact company, with their ponies' heads towards the two figures crouching in the hollow of the dog town.
Sergeant Silk had turned to confront them, raising himself to command a fuller view of them. He understood their manœuvre. Instead of closing in around him from all sides in broken order, they were going to make a combined frontal charge.
"Fools!" he muttered contemptuously. "They never learn how to fight. They're going to rush us in a bunch!"
Keeping his eyes fixed upon the lingering Indians, he moved backward a foot or two nearer to Maple Leaf, and slowly drew from his holster a heavy revolver, which he placed on the grass between them.
"Listen!" he said in a sharp whisper, glancing for an instant into her dark, fearless eyes. "They're going to rush us in a bunch. We've only a few minutes. Maybe I can break them. I don't know. I shall try. It's a bare chance. But in this pistol"—he touched the weapon—"I shall always save two shots—for the last. One for you. One for me. Understand?"
Maple Leaf nodded.
"Yes," she answered. "You will shoot me first; then yourself. It is best. I understand."