It was the first streak of day. The men and horses had been resting for four hours—those not on picket, and some had even slept and were fresh. But the young officer could think of nothing but the little girl, and wonder at her fate.
They had lined in behind a few willows that skirted a small stream and were concealed from the view of the Indians. Then they looked well to rifles and Colts. The light came slowly and as they peered through the mist where the cabin stood only a burnt place blurred the dry grass of the prairie. There were no Indians in sight.
“Thar—look!”
It was an old Indian fighter whose keen eyes saw it first—a thing which looked like a potato-house butting out of a clay bank.
“Thar’s life in thar—see—it’s the little gal, an’ she’s alive yit—see!”
From the protection of small rises on the right three Comanches galloped out encircling the dug-out in a very generous circle. They had slipped on the off-side of their ponies and clung to mane and neck, with one leg and heel thrust over the flank.
The old fighter snarled: “The cowardly coyotes! They seem ter be mighty skeered of a little gal. Say, but they’ve got a whole lot o’ respect for her; she must have a weep’n o’ some sort in thar an’ tort ’em a crackin’ less’n with it, or them dogs ’ud et her up befo’ now; why—thar, by gad—”
He gripped the Lieutenant’s shoulder as a puff of smoke leaped out of the clay bank and the foremost pony stopped so quickly that it went down, Comanche under.
“She’s killed that Indian sho’,” cried the old hunter in a whisper. “No live Comanche was ever cocht under a fallin’ pony. See.”
The pony sprang quickly up—the bullet had creased him; but marvelous the shot!—it had gone to the exact spot where it would bring down a pony creased and a rider with a hole through his head.