“Certainly. The cowboys don't have much of an open season in which to shoot Indians. We'll wind 'em up in the open.” Levelling his field-glass, the captain took a hasty survey of the gorge. “I guess they are coming now. Yes, it's Brookes and his men!”
Le Boyen, among the rocks, was also aware of the approach of Brookes. He was also aware that the captain was getting his men in hand. He had found time to roll a boulder or two to the rear of the position he had originally assumed, and now, on the top of one of these, he placed his two revolvers. On the whole, he was not particularly desirous of living since the destruction of his band; but he was desirous of doing as much hurt to his enemies as he could.
The volleys of the men from below and the volleys of the men in his rear now swept his hiding-place. It would have been fatal to expose a hand or an arm even. He would wait until the two parties had advanced so close that they must discontinue their fire, then there would be a brief second or two in which one who was really indifferent about living could do much harm. And so it happened that Brookes and his men were face to face with the rest of the command, scarcely fifty yards separating them, when Le Boyen picked up a revolver in each hand and rose from his lair. Before the startled troopers knew what he meant to do, he was emptying them in their faces.
The captain had been the last man up the ascent, owing to the shortness of his legs. He found Brookes and his men clustered about a solitary figure on the ground, a figure riddled and torn with bullets.
“Humph!” with a glance at the half-breed. “Where are the rest, men?” he added.
“That's all, sir,” said Brookes.
“Nonsense; you don't mean that he stood us off alone?”
The lieutenant looked at the figure on the ground.
“It's just about the right proportion, don't you think?” he ventured.
“Well, I wouldn't say that for the credit of the race,” said the captain. “Poor old colonel; think of getting shot in an affair of this kind!”