The Indians
set up a wild yell of triumph.
"Steady, Hubert. Jump off. Pick up papa's pistol. Arrange the
horses in a triangle round him. That's right. Now don't throw away
a shot."
The nearest Indian was scarcely thirty yards off when Charley's
bullet crashed into his brain. The three immediately following him
fell in rapid succession, another chief's arm sank useless to his
side, while the horse of another fell, shot through the brain.
Both the boys were pale, but their hands were as steady as iron.
They felt as if, with their father lying insensible under their
protection, they could not miss.
So terrible was the destruction which the continued fire wrought
among the leaders that the others instinctively checked the speed
of their horses as they approached the little group, from which
fire and balls seemed to stream, and began to discharge arrows at
the boys, hanging on the other side of their horses, so that by
their foes they could not be seen, a favorite maneuver with
the Indians. As the boys fired their last barrels they drew their
revolvers from the holsters, and, taking aim as the Indians showed
a head or an arm under their horses' necks or over their backs,
their twelve barrels added to the Indians scattered over the
ground.
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