I remember I kept a sort of mental tally of the fallen. Hank had told me that there were about twenty-three in the band, so I calculated: “Four dead on the first attack on the wall; one shot through the hand, under the gate. Balance to their credit—eighteen.”
Just then we received an unexpected shock. We saw a curl of smoke rising above the gates; the savages were piling brush against them, to which they had already set fire. This was a serious matter, which even Jim had not calculated upon. He ordered us to lie low while he took a look round.
I was so interested to know what he would do that I could not resist the temptation to put my head around the corner of the house, and this is what I saw.
Jim crept on hands and knees towards the wagon which we had placed against the wall. In a moment he had reached it, shot-gun in hand, and silently and slowly raised himself into it, gradually straightening out with his head and arms just above the wall. Then, quick as a flash, he took aim. There was a crash—or rather a double crash, for he had fired both barrels—an awful yell from the Indians, and he was speeding back to safety.
“I FELT MYSELF BEING DRAGGED OVER.”
One savage, braver than the rest, took a quick shot at him. The bullet did no harm to Jim, but came near being fatal to me, for I had been so intent on watching him that I now found that I had unconsciously stepped into the open.
Instead of bolting for shelter, I had but one thing in mind—to check up the account and see how many “good” Indians there were and how many bad ones.
Consequently, in a moment—foolhardy as it may seem—I was on the wagon, peering over the wall, taking account of the dead and wounded at the gates.
Although Jim’s shot-gun had done fearful execution, there were but two who appeared to be actually dead.