Never were men more utterly mistaken in their lives.
Seizing hold of one of them he pulled him from his horse.
Then all saw that the man had been rightly named the Hunter Hercules. With what seemed to be a slight effort to what he was capable of making, he raised the heavy Indian above his head, and after balancing him a couple of seconds, sent him forward with a velocity that man had never seen before. It seemed as though he had been shot from the mouth of a cannon. The second Indian was struck in the breast by the first, and he was knocked a dozen feet from his horse.
Barry could not help thinking what a star the hunter would make in a circus.
CHAPTER XIX.
HILT TO HILT AND FACE TO FACE.
As the Comanches saw their leader fall, they uttered a thundering yell of rage, and came like a thunderbolt against the little band of whites. This was echoed by a chorus of hurrahs from the trappers, and then they went at it again.
There was no holding back on the part of the Comanches now.
They no longer cared for the Frenchman and his famous umbrella.
On they came, yelling like so many fiends, and the last spark of hope died out of the breasts of our friends, as they looked upon the ferocious crowd of howling demons.
There was not a spark of mercy in those gleaming, bloodshot eyes; no, all of that (if there ever had been any, which is extremely doubtful,) had died out with the death of their chief, Red Buffalo.