The brave words had scarce passed from Walt Wilder's lips when the
waggons became enveloped in a cloud of smoke. From all sides it rolled
into the corral till those inside could no longer see one another.
Still through the obscurity rang their cries of mutual encouragement,
repeating the determination so tersely expressed.
They knew they had no water by which to extinguish the fast-threatening
flames; yet in that moment of emergency they thought of an expedient.
There were shovels in the waggons; and laying hold of these, they
commenced flinging sand over the places that had caught fire, with the
intent to smother the incipient blaze. Left alone, and with time, they
might have succeeded. But they were not left alone, for the savages,
seeing the advantage they had gained, were now fast closing for a final
charge upon the corral, and the implements of industry had to be
abandoned.
These were thrown despairingly aside; and the besieged, once more
grasping their rifles, sprang back into the waggons--each with eager eye
searching for an assailant. Though themselves half blinded by the
smoke, they could still see the enemy outside; for the Indians, grown
confident by the _coup_ they had made, were now riding recklessly near.
Quick came the reports of rifles--faster and more frequent than ever;
fast as ten men, all practised marksmen, could load and fire. In less
than sixty seconds nearly a score of savages dropped to the
death-dealing bullets, till the plain appeared strewn with dead bodies.
But the crisis had come--the time for a general charge of the whole
band; and now the dusky outside ring was seen gradually contracting
towards the corral--the savages advancing from all sides, some on foot,
others on horseback, all eager to secure the trophy of a scalp.
On they came, violently gesticulating, and uttering wild vengeful
shouts.
With the besieged it was a moment for despair. The waggons were on fire
all around them, and in several places flames were beginning to flicker
up through the smoke. They no longer thought of making any attempt to
extinguish them. They knew it would be idle.
Did they think of surrender? No--not a man of them. That would have
been equally idle. In the voices of the advancing foe there was not an
accent of mercy.
Surrender! And be slain afterwards! Before which to be tortured,
perhaps dragged at the horse's tail, or set up as a target for the
Tenawa sharpshooters to practise at. No! They would have to die
anyhow. Better now than then. They were not the men to offer both
cheeks to the insulter. They could resign sweet life, but death would
be all the sweeter with corpses of Indians lying thickly around them.
They would first make a hecatomb of their hated foes, and then fall upon
it. That is the sort of death preferred by the prairie man--hunter,
trapper, or trader--glorious to him as the cannon-furrowed field to the
soldier. That is the sort of death of which Walt Wilder spoke when he
said, "Let us die, not like dogs, but as men--as Americans!"
By this time the smoke had completely enveloped the waggons, the
enclosed space between, and a fringe of some considerable width around
them. But a still darker ring was all around--the circle of savage
horsemen, who from all sides were galloping up and dismounting to make
surer work of the slaughter. The warriors jostled one another as they
pressed forward afoot, each thirsting for a scalp.
The last throe of the conflict had come. It was no longer to be a duel
at a distance--no more a contest between rifle-bullets and barbed
arrows; but the close, desperate, hand-to-hand contest of pistol, knife,
spear, club, and hatchet.
The ten white men--none of them yet _hors de combat_--knew well what was
before them. Not one of them blanched or talked of backing. They did
not even think of surrender. It would have been too late to sue for
mercy, had they been so inclined.
But they were not. Attacked without provocation, and treacherously, as
they had been, their fury was stronger than their fear; and anger now
nerved them to frenzied energy of action.
The savages had already closed around the waggons, clustering upon the
wheels, some like snakes, wriggling through the spaces left undefended.
Rifles ceased to ring; but pistols cracked--repeating pistols, that
dealt death at every shot, sending redskin after redskin to the happy
hunting grounds. And by the pistol's flash blades were seen gleaming
through the smoke--now bright, anon dimmed, and dripping blood.
For every white man that fell, at least three red ones went down upon
the sand.
The unequal contest could not long continue. Scarce ten minutes did it
last, and but for the obscuring smoke five would have finished it. This
was in favour of the assailed, enabling them to act with advantage
against the assailants. Such a quick, wholesale slaughter did the white
men make with their revolvers that the savages, surprised and staggered
by it, for a moment recoiled, and appeared as if again going to retreat.
They did not--they dared not. Their superior numbers--the shame of
being defeated by such a handful of foes--the glory of conquest--and,
added to it, an angry vengeance now hot in their hearts--all urged them
on; and the attack was renewed with greater earnestness than ever.
Throughout every scene in the strife Frank Hamersley had comported
himself with a courage that made his men feel less fear of death, and
less regret to die by his side. Fighting like a lion, he had been here,
and there, and everywhere. He had done his full share of slaving.
It was all in vain. Though standing in the midst of thick smoke,
unseeing and unseen, he knew that most of his faithful men had fallen.
He was admonished of this by their less frequent responses to his cries
of encouragement, telling him the struggle was close upon its
termination. No wonder his fury was fast giving place to despair. But
it was no craven fear, nor any thought of escape. His determination not
to be taken alive was strong as ever.
His hand still firmly clasped his bowie-knife, its blade dripping with
the blood of more than one enemy; for into the body of more than one had
he plunged it. He clutched it with the determination still farther to
kill--to take yet another life before parting with his own.
It was hopeless, useless slaughter; but it was sweet. Almost insane
with anger, he thought it sweet.
Three dusky antagonists lay dead at his feet, and he was rushing across
the corral in search of a fourth. A giant figure loomed up before him,
looking more gigantic from the magnifying effect of the smoke. It was
not that of a savage; it was Walt Wilder.
"Dead beat!" hoarsely and hurriedly muttered the guide. "We must go
under, Frank. We're boun' to go under, if we don't--"
"Don't what, Walt?"
"Git away from hyar."
"Impossible."
"No. Thar's still a chance, I think--for us two anyways. There ain't
many o' the others left, an' ef thar war, we can't do 'em any good now.
Our stayin' 'ud be no use--no use dyin' along wi' 'em; while ef we get
clar, we mout live to revenge 'em. Don't ye see our two horses are
still safe? Thar they air, cowerin' clost in agin one o' the waggons.
'Tain't much kit? I admit; still thar's a shadder. Come, Frank, and
let's try it."
Hamersley hesitated. It was at thought of deserting even the last of
his faithful followers, who had sacrificed, or were still sacrificing,
their lives in his service. But, as the guide had truly said what good
could he do them by staying and getting killed? And he might survive to
avenge them!
The last reflection would have decided him! But Wilder had not waited
for him to determine. While speaking the urgent words, he laid his huge
hand upon Hamersley's shoulder and half led, half dragged him in the
direction of the horses. "Keep hold o' yur rifle, though it air empty,"
hurriedly counselled the guide. "If we shed get away, it will be
needed. We mout as well go under hyar as be upon the pararira without a
gun. Now mount!"
Almost mechanically the young Kentuckian climbed upon the back of the
horse nearest to him--his own. The guide had not yet mounted his; but,
as could be seen through the smoke, was leaning against the wheel of one
of the waggons. In an instant after Hamersley perceived that the
vehicle was in motion, and could hear a slight grating noise as the tire
turned in the sand. The great Conestoga, with its load had yielded to
the strength of the Colossus.
In another instant he had sprung upon his horse's back and riding close
to Hamersley, muttered in his ear, "Now I've opened a crack atween two
o' the wehicles. Let's cut out through it. We kin keep in the kiver o'
the smoke as far as it'll screen us. You foller, an' see that ye don't
lose sight o' me. If we must go under in the eend, let it be out on the
open plain, an' not shut up hyar like badgers in a barr'l. Follow me
clost, Frank. Now or niver!"
Almost mechanically the young Kentuckian yielded obedience; and in ten
seconds after the two horsemen had cleared the waggon clump, with the
shouting crowd that encircled it and were going at full gallop across
the sand-strewn plain.