Reuben, Mike, and I were advancing as I have described, somewhat ahead of the train, when towards evening we entered a valley, the hills sloping away on either side of it. At the further end we expected to find a stream, at the side of which we could encamp. I was leading, Mike was next to me, and Reuben was nearest the train. The ground I was traversing was somewhat rough, and I was leaping from one rock to another, when I fell and sprained my ankle. Just as I got up—being then on higher ground than my companions, and having a more extensive view—I saw a large band of horsemen approaching at full gallop. I knew at once that they were Redskins.
“Indians! Indians!” I shrieked out to Mike. “Tell Reuben to run and let our friends know that the enemy are upon us.”
Mike shouted at the top of his voice, as I had desired him. I saw Reuben set off, and Mike following him. Presently Mike stopped and looked back to see what had become of me. I endeavoured to run, but found it impossible to move. Before I had made a second step, I sank to the ground.
“Sure, you are not coming, Masther Roger,” cried Mike, on seeing me fall.
The pain I endured prevented me speaking.
Mike rushed back towards me, crying out all the time, “Come along! come along!” But move I could not.
He was still at some distance from me, when, looking round, I saw that the Indians were rapidly approaching. I made signs to him to save himself, but he either did not, or would not, understand them.
“Go back! go back!” I at length cried out.
“Arrah! and sure, not till I’ve got you on me back,” he answered, still making his way towards me.
I felt very certain that, with me to carry, he could not possibly reach the train before the Indians would be up with us, and he could scarcely have failed to know this.