“Trample the dogs down, horse!” he yelled, and as he reached the foot of the hill, bang, bang, bang, went the chambers of his deadly weapons.
Not a bullet was thrown away; with each report an Indian fell backward, and before the white, death-dealing whirlwind they scattered and fled, every man for himself, toward the river.
The horse was in his glory; he overtook several of the red fugitives, and knocked two beneath his iron-shod feet, never to rise again.
Bang! bang! and two more dropped dead at the water’s edge; another shot, the last, and the Nebraska was crimsoned with the blood of a third.
“We’ve roasted ’em, Tecumseh,” said the hunter, as the steed paused in the water to slake his burning thirst. “They can’t stand afore ye, horse, they can’t do it, by Joshua! Now we’ll go back and look for the boys.”
A moment later Frontier Shack was galloping back to the fire.
He found Charley Shafer on his knees, supported by his stronger friend, George Long.
Frontier Shack dismounted and knelt before the twain.
“As weak as kittens, almost,” he said, in a kindly tone; “and dash me, if I didn’t reach these diggin’s in the nick o’ time. Them devils might hev’ known that ye couldn’t play and dance forever; but ye’ll live to pay ’em back!”
“I hope so, sir,” said George, his eyes lighting up with vengeance. “Don’t you want to pay the dogs back, Charley?”