But Rogers had already crept to the teamster's side; he reached out a hand and pushed the boy back in his place.
“Never mind him, you keep out of sight,” he said quietly.
“Do you mean he's dead!” cried Walsh.
Here Bushrod Landray's warning cry recalled the Californian to his post.
“They seem to be forming for a charge,” he said.
“And they're nearer than they need be,” rejoined Rogers, throwing his rifle to his shoulder. The group melted away at the flash, but one of the savages tumbled from his saddle and lay as he had fallen until one of his friends crept up on hands and knees and dragged the body off; at him the Californian fired again, but apparently without effect.
“The varments will fetch away their dead and wounded every time if they can!” he said.
“Dunlevy was killed outright?” asked Landray.
“Yes, he wan't much of a shot, and he would raise his head to see what was going on. I heard your brother tell him more than once to keep down,” said Rogers resentfully.
The fight continued until the sun sank beyond the ragged lines of peaks; and its glory turned first to grey and then deepened into twilight; a twilight through which the horsemen moved vaguely like shadows; then suddenly the attack ceased; the brisk volleys dwindled to a few straggling shots, and silence usurped the place of sound, silence absolute and supreme. Bushrod turned to Rogers who rose slowly and stood erect. “I reckon it's over until daylight comes again,” he said.