A small party only
continued to drive the animals, and the rest of the Indians,
wheeling sharp round, and uttering a wild war-cry, came back at
full gallop toward the whites.
"Halt, boys-steady, dismount: take up your positions quietly. Don't
fire till I give you the word. I shall try my rifle first."
The well-trained horses, accustomed to their masters firing from
their backs, stood as steady as if carved in stone, their heads
turned inquiringly toward the yelling throng of horsemen who were
approaching. Mr. Hardy and the boys had both dismounted, so that
the horses were between them and the Indians, the saddles serving
as rests for their firearms.
"Five hundred yards, Charley?" his father asked quietly.
"A little over, papa; nearly six, I should say."
Mr. Hardy waited another ten seconds, and then his rifle cracked;
and a yell of astonishment and rage broke from the Indians, as one
of their chiefs, conspicuous from an old dragoon helmet, taken
probably in some skirmish with the soldiers, fell from his horse.
"Hurrah!" Charley cried. "Shall we fire now, papa?"
"No, Charley," Mr. Hardy said as he reloaded his rifle; "wait till
they are four hundred yards off, then fire slowly. Count ten
between each shot, and take as steady an aim as possible.
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