“Look here,” said Bushrod, “what do you say to my banking up the earth under the wagons?”
“It's an excellent idea; I'd do it,” said Stephen.
“Come,” said Rogers, “lets you and me take a look around, Mr. Landray. I reckon they're in no hurry to try this hill, I wouldn't be if I was them.” They crossed the barricade, and inspected their surroundings. The top of the hill was perfectly flat, and an acre or more in extent; beyond this level space the ground fell gently away to the plain below.
“It's right smart of a place for a fight,” remarked Rogers, after a brief glance about.
Stephen nodded; he admitted to himself that with such an enemy the spot had its own peculiar advantages; he could believe that they might hold it for an almost indefinite period, even against much greater odds. His memory reverted to the glories of the freshly fought fields of Texas and Mexico: Odds? What had odds meant in the past to the men of America; and what were they still meaning on a thousand miles of lonely frontier?
To the west, near the base of the mountains, a fringe of cottonwoods and willows marked a water course; there the herbage of the plain was a richer green. Stephen almost fancied he could seen the water sparkling among the trees, then he remembered that their own supply was wholly exhausted. Rogers seemed to understand what was passing in his mind; he touched him on the arm.
“We could never have made it, Mr. Landray,” he said regretfully. “They'd have cut us off in the open.”
The horsemen who had ridden away toward the west were now nearing the cottonwoods. Rogers turned from regarding them to look at the forted wagons.
“Your brother 'll fix the camp snug enough. I reckon after he gets finished we can make it hot for the redskin who thinks his road lays across the top of this hill.”
“You have told me of these fights; what chance have we?” asked Stephen gravely.