Five minutes more and the train were within a few hundred yards of the river—there could be no doubt but that they were the anxiously expected enemy. The moon had not yet risen, but by the starlight their numbers could be easily counted, and it was observed that there were two persons with them, who were evidently white—a man and a woman. It was with difficulty that the cheers, which rose to the lips of the men on recognizing the Major, could be repressed.
“It will never do to attack them before they have crossed,” said Hugh Robison. “If we do, the chances are that they run without firing a shot, and if they do, good care will be taken that the prisoners are not left behind.”
“That’s so, Hugh,” replied Hawkins. “Just wait till they hev crossed over, and are mountin’ the bank—then pick your marks, and let drive. Be careful you don’t hit the prisoners, though, and sallyin’ out on the red varmints, kinder take ’em by surprise. We may ride through without trouble, and then agin we mayn’t. But you ain’t the boys to be scared at the prospects of gettin’ a few hard knocks in a scrimmage, and remember, you’re fightin’ to rescue yer best friends.”
This was the speech of the Captain to his army, and its effects was as great as though he had harangued them for an hour; the men looked at their weapons, and then to the leader of the Indian file, who had ridden his horse into the river.
Several minutes passed of intense interest to those ambushed, until the last of the horsemen reached the river bank, and began its ascent. It had been conjectured that the party might stop, for a while, at least, at this spot, but they gave no indications of any such purpose.
With a low-whispered “fire!” Ned Hawkins raised his rifle to his shoulder—the six followed his motion—then came a single, loud, clear-ringing crack, and three of the Indians were seen to drop from their saddles, while two or three others swayed violently in their seats.
The Indian who had been specially appointed to guard Adele had fallen from his seat, struck dead by a chance shot, and the half-fainting girl, though unconstrained, unconsciously clung tightly to the saddle, totally disregarding the cry of Waving Plume to throw herself off.
One of the prisoners was rescued—the other was not. The trappers’ work was but half done. Ten Indians lay dead on the plain, and a number of those who escaped had received serious wounds, while none of the whites had been killed. Bill Stevens had received a severe cut on the shoulder, and a blow on the head, but neither wound was mortal; and, though the rest had not all passed through the affray unscathed, yet they were as fit for fighting as when they first entered into the conflict.
The cords which bound the limbs of Major Robison were speedily cut, and his first exclamation, upon being loosed, was:
“My daughter!”