In this latter, however, they were mistaken. Even the little foreigner showed commendable pluck, and several times he put his hand upon his little revolver, as if to try a shot at the Comanches, but was restrained by Ralph, who told him to save his powder.
The circus-rider could easily have distanced both his comrades and the Comanches, had he been so cowardly as to have wished to do so. This was far from being the state of Barry Le Clare’s feelings.
He was no coward, as his entering the hostile village to save persons who were entire strangers to him proved.
The three mustangs were keeping their distance very well, but the guide knew that soon they would begin to fall off, and he resolved to diminish the number of the Comanches as much as possible before the latter began to gain upon the four whites.
Turning in his saddle, he lifted his rifle to his shoulder.
Monsieur Tierney had seen Ralph discharge his gun while in among the trees, and as he had not seen him load it while he rode, he felt sure that the guide was only trying to scare the Indians.
He could not help smiling at the simple ruse, as he deemed the movement of the hunter; but the smile on his face quickly changed to a look of astonishment which was truly ridiculous.
What surprised him was the fact that when the guide pulled the trigger of his rifle, there came a sharp, whip-like crack, that sounded high and clear above the yells of the Comanches and the noise made by the hoofs of the horses.
And what was still more wonderful, one of the pursuing braves seemed to have run against a bullet, for with a shrill shriek of mortal anguish, he threw his arms wildly into the air and fell from his horse to the ground, to rise no more.
Ralph’s bullet had done its work, and done it well, too.