It seemed to the tired whites as though the combat had been going on for hours, and yet all that has been told in this and the preceding chapter, happened in the course of thirty minutes.
There was one thing that the Comanches saw, and that was, that their enemies would never be captured alive.
Knowing this, they made no effort to take them, but did every thing they could possibly think of, to kill them.
When Comanches can not get prisoners to torture, they are very well satisfied with scalps.
And now they concentrated their forces for a grand and final rush, which would cut down all of the whites.
The latter knew what was coming, and braced themselves for the coming struggle.
They were all together now, and with heaving breasts and determined countenances they awaited the event, holding their weapons in readiness. They knew that in five minutes more they would be most likely rubbed out, and they only wanted to let daylight into a few more of their dusky foes, before the fight reached its final and fatal termination.
There was no mistaking the scowling faces of the Indians, as with one sharp, quick yell, that meant business, they rode forward.
There were still eight to one, and this was too great odds for the whites to have any hope.
Help was nearer than they thought.