“That’s shootin’ some,” cried the old hunter as the young officer gave the quick commands:
“Ready!”
“Mount!”
“Charge!”
“An’ remember the little gal!” they shouted as they broke across the plains.
It was a running fight and the Indians taken by surprise, for they were after the thing in the dug-out. And they paid for it—sixteen dead ones in the first half mile. The others—they had enough to get away from the forty troopers who shot as they rode and shot to kill.
Then the Lieutenant and ten men rode back to the dug-out. They approached it slowly—reverently, and all the time the young officer was thinking of dark eyes and auburn curls and the beauty and bravery of the little girl.
“Hello!” he shouted, his voice trembled in spite of himself. “Hello!—we’re your friends.”
“Hello, yo’self—mighty glad to see you.”
“It’s the little girl, men,” shouted the Lieutenant, boyishly, as he rushed up. “She’s safe! hurrah!” and they gave it with a ring.