A puff of white smoke, a sharp crack, and the bullet went like lightning through the air. Ralph had calculated upon the distance and had aimed rather high. His calculation was correct, for one of the Comanches received the fatal bullet in his breast, and so unexpected was it, that he rolled from his horse without the usual death yell.
A few seconds after and a loud yell from the Indians told that at length they had decided upon a plan of action.
They tried the old plan of circling around the four whites with their bodies hidden behind their horses, and gradually edging up closer and closer.
When near enough they began to discharge their guns, and then the guide thought it was time to retaliate.
Barry shot a horse with his rifle, and Ralph picked off the rider before he could hide in the short grass.
The young hunter shot another horse with a ball from his revolver, and his rifle sounded the death-note of the beast’s owner and rider.
This was more than the Indians could stand.
This plan of having their men killed and none of their enemies injured, was too fine a thing in favor of the whites.
Luck, so far, seemed on the side of the whites, and the thing was getting monotonous to the Comanches.
Something must be done, and that at once.