AT BAY.
George Starr's pony, left to himself, wandered off to the side of the
other one, on which sat Mrs. Starr, with Dot. The latter reached out her
chubby hand and patted the silken nose of the intelligent horse, who
liked the caress. The mother was too agitated to notice this by-play,
but kept watch for her husband.
The latter crept to within a foot or two of the top of the swell, when
he quickly but cautiously raised his head and peered over at the Sioux.
But a minute or two had passed since exchanging words with Bent Arm, but
that brief period was improved as much by one party as the other. The
Sioux leader's horse was in the stream to the depth of his knees, and
the second Indian was in the act of entering, with the others close
behind him.
It was no time for hesitation, for that meant death. Starr shoved his
Winchester in front, so that the muzzle projected over the swell, took
deliberate aim at Bent Arm, and let fly.
The distance was short, the rancher was an excellent marksman, and the
bullet bored its way through the breast of the painted miscreant, who
hardly knew what hurt him. With a screech, he threw up his arms, one
grasping his gun, and toppled from the back of his pony, falling with a
loud splash into the water, where for the moment he disappeared under
the surface.
George Starr was never cooler in his life. He was fighting not only for
his own existence, but for those who were dearer to him than that
existence. He knew the mercilessness of the red men near at hand, and he
was equally merciless to them.
This proceeding, as may be supposed, caused consternation for a moment
among the advancing Sioux. The warrior immediately behind the leader
stopped his pony abruptly, stared at the tuft of grass above which the
faint puff of smoke was curling; and then, fearful of a second shot
aimed at himself, whirled his animal about and sent him at one bound up
the bank of the stream, where his companions, no less dismayed than he,
threw themselves forward on the backs of their horses, to shield
themselves from the aim of the rancher.
It was at this crisis that George Starr committed two blunders which
threatened the very doom he was trying to escape. One of those errors,
however, did credit to his heart, if not to his head.
Having opened the ball, he should have pushed things unmercifully. He
was well aware of the venom of those red men, and, with his magazine
rifle at command, he ought to have kept up an unremitting fire until he
had tumbled several more to the ground, and driven the survivors beyond
sight and the power of harm. It was his reluctance to perpetrate such
slaughter, and the weak hope that he had already accomplished that
result, that stayed his hand, at the moment when he should have steeled
his feelings against sympathy. The other equally serious mistake was in
staying where he was, prone on the ground, with a watchful eye on the
marauders. He saw, when it was too late, that he should have dashed back
to his pony, and leaped into the saddle and ridden with his wife, in all
haste, for the refuge a mile away. Whether that would have proven a
refuge or not was uncertain, but with the check given the Sioux he would
have secured a start that promised everything.
Night was approaching, and, in the gathering gloom, it ought not to have
been difficult, with the advantage named, to throw his pursuers off the
trail. But he tarried until the chance was irrevocably gone.
The Sioux proved on more than one occasion, during their recent troubles
in the West, that they were capable of daring, coolness, and heroism,
and are quick to recover from a panic. When driven to bay they will
fight like wild-cats, and the bleaching bones of many a brave soldier
and officer bear eloquent witness to these qualities on their part.
Instead of breaking into a wild flight beyond the sheltering bank on the
other side of the stream, as the rancher expected them to do, they held
their places on the backs of their ponies, and, leaning over so as to
protect themselves, returned the fire of the white man.
Looking across the narrow stream, they saw the slouch hat rising in the
short grass, just behind the projecting muzzle of the Winchester, and a
couple of them aimed and fired.
But the rancher was too alert to be caught in that fashion. The moment
he observed the action of the red men, he dropped his head behind the
swell of earth, and the bullets clipped the grass and scattered the dirt
harmlessly within a few inches of his crown.
"Be careful!" called the anxious wife, who read the meaning of the
flying soil; "they will hit you."
"Have no fear of me," replied the husband, without looking around; "I am
all right; keep back where you are and hold yourself ready to ride as
fast as you can when I give the word."
The rancher now did that which he should have done in the first place:
he doffed his hat and laid it on the ground beside him. It was too
conspicuous under the circumstances, and the Sioux were on the watch for
it.
Waiting several minutes after the firing of the two shots, he stealthily
raised his head high enough to look through the grass in front. An
astonishing sight rewarded him.
In the brief interval that had passed after firing his rifle, the five
Indians had dashed over the swell with their ponies where the latter
were out of sight, and, flinging themselves on the ground, took
precisely the same position as his own. They were now as safe from harm
as himself. The duel was one of vigilance, caution, skill, and
watchfulness, with the chances against the white man.
The keen gaze of the latter, wandering over the surface of the stream,
detected a dark object some distance to the right, as it showed
indistinctly on the surface, disappearing, and then slowly coming to
view again farther down. He required no one to tell him that it was the
victim of his marksmanship, drifting out of sight, as many a one had
done before, when trying to stay the advancing tide of the hated
Caucasian.
It struck the rancher that it would be well to let the Sioux know that
he was still on guard. He caught glimpses here and there of the upper
part of a repulsive face, with its long black hair and serpent-like
eyes, on the alert to catch him unawares, and he fired at the nearest.
The aim was good, but there was no reason to believe that he had
inflicted harm, though he must have come nigh it.
Strange it is that in the most trying moments, when it would seem that a
trifling thought should be impossible on the part of a person, he
sometimes gives way to a fancy that is of that nature. Recalling the
story which he had read when a boy, and which is familiar to all our
readers, the rancher now picked up his hat at his side and gently raised
it to view, taking care to lower his own head beyond reach of harm.
Instantly a couple of rifles cracked from the other side of the stream,
and he smiled grimly when he saw the marks of the bullets in the crown.
"They shoot well," he said, turning his face toward his wife and
holding up the hat, "but they made a slight mistake that time."
If the Sioux supposed that the last shots were fatal, they were likely
to repeat their attempt to cross. That would never do, and, more with a
view of letting them know no harm had resulted, than in the hope of
inflicting injury, the rancher took aim at what seemed to be the
forehead of one of the warriors, a short distance up stream, and fired.
To his amazement, the wild screech left no doubt that the shot was
fatal. The bullet had bored its way through the bronzed skull of the
miscreant, and the force of assaulting Sioux was now reduced by
one-third.