Captain Shirril and his nephew placed their ponies beside each other, with a space of only a few feet intervening. Then, standing on the ground, they rested their Winchesters across the saddles, facing in opposite directions, and were ready for the assault of the red men, who were circling back and forth and gradually drawing nearer to them.

“Keep cool,” said the captain, “and, when you fire, don’t throw away a shot.”

They were a mile from camp, and, as soon as the shooting began, it ought to attract the notice of the rest, who were sure to hurry to the spot. There was reason to believe the Indians could be held off for a long time, and, brave as they were, it was not to be expected that they would maintain their ground before such a charge as the cowboys would make, and had made a short time before.

The warriors were armed with excellent rifles, and belonged to a tribe that is unsurpassable in horsemanship. Several had blankets on their mustangs, but most were without even that protection, being bareback, while few possessed anything in the nature of a bridle. The well-trained steeds, as we have shown, were perfectly managed by word and touch, and often seemed to divine the wishes of their riders, without word or movement on their part.

But, daring as were the latter, they knew the peril involved in assailing two well-armed white men at bay. They continued their rapid galloping at a safe distance, some of them describing a complete circle around the couple, who were quietly awaiting the chances for effective work.

Before long the assailants began operations. Hardly one retained an upright position on his steed for more than a few seconds at a time. They flung themselves forward, as if in wantonness, their painted faces appearing 266 below their horses’ necks, with their long black hair streaming away, as if it were a part of the mane of their steeds. Then they extended themselves seemingly along the spine of their animals, as if for slumber in the sun. While the steeds sped back and forth, the riders lolled here and there on their backs, as though it was impossible for them to lose their balance. Trying as were the circumstances, Captain Shirril could not help admiring the equestrian exhibition, which could not have been excelled.

But he quickly proved that he meant business of the most serious kind. He fixed his attention on one of the half-naked miscreants, who was not only nearer than any of his companions, but kept edging closer. For a time, he maintained himself on the further side of his mustang, seeming to hold himself in place by the toe of one of his moccasins thrust over the spine at the haunches, with hardly less significant help from a hand at the base of the neck.

When the horse wheeled to return over his own trail, as he frequently did, the matchless 267 rider, with a grace that was inimitable, swung himself over in a corresponding position on the other side, so as to preserve the body of his steed as a shield.

Without warning, he discharged his rifle from beneath the neck of the animal, and the excellence of his aim was proven by the whiz of the bullet near the head of Captain Shirril.

But the latter was not disturbed. He was biding his time, and knew the opportunity was near.

Suddenly the mustang wheeled again. At the moment of doing so, he was closer to the defenders than at any period before. The rider rose to view for a moment, like a leaper going over a fence sideways. Then as he descended on the other side of the steed, he continued descending until he struck the ground, where he rolled over a single time and never stirred again.

At the critical instant, Captain Shirril had fired. An ear-splitting screech followed, and that particular Comanche was eliminated from the problem that confronted him.

The riderless horse flung up his head, with 268 a whinny of affright, and, looking hither and thither, as if unable to understand the meaning of the occurrence, dashed off to join his companions, further away on the prairie.

The thin puff of smoke had not lifted from before the captain’s face, when his nephew let fly at one of the warriors, who was extended along the back of his animal, as if inviting a shot. Avon missed, and the Indian, with astonishing quickness, brought his own gun to a level and fired in return. The ball nipped the brim of his sombrero, passing so close that for a second the youth believed he was hit.

The situation was growing serious, and, since this particular Comanche was so defiant, Avon decided that the occasion was a good one for the use of a repeating weapon. Without pausing to take special aim, he fired three times in rapid succession at his foe.

Though the latter escaped for the moment, his steed was less fortunate. He was hit hard by the first shot, while the last brought him to earth with a bullet through his brain.

His rider was too nimble to be caught by 269 the fall, but, leaping clear, ran swiftly across the plain in the effort to get beyond reach of the rifle, which seemed to be raining bullets all around him. His courage had given place to panic, and as he ran he bounded from side to side and up and down with the grotesque contortions of a Digger Indian when seeking to baffle the aim of an enemy.

Avon continued his fusillade, and by a piece of pure accident winged the fugitive. He did not fall, but the height of his leap and the resonance of his outcry, instantly succeeded by a pronounced limp in his gait, left no doubt that he had gotten in the path of the hurtling messenger.

“How are you making out, Baby?” asked Captain Shirril, turning his head and coolly scrutinizing his relative.

“Only fairly,” replied Avon, replenishing the magazine of his gun and keeping his gaze on the plain in front.

“It is well enough to drop a mustang, but it is better to tumble their riders off them.”

“I meant to do that, but failed.”

The natural supposition of the friends was 270 that the hot reception they had given their assailants would check them, and cause their withdrawal beyond the deadly range of their Winchesters. The reports must have reached the cowboys, and both glanced at the ridge to the west, over which they expected to see their comrades coming to their rescue.

But the Comanches could not have failed to know of the presence of others near at hand, which fact warned them that whatever they did must be done quickly. Instead of falling back, therefore, because of the loss of a single warrior and steed, they rallied and pushed the fight with greater vigor than ever.

In the face of the cracking Winchesters they rode closer than before, and then branching apart, put their animals on a run while they discharged their guns from every conceivable position. Instead of wheeling about as at first, they kept them straight away on the circle, which being less than before, enabled them to circumnavigate the defenders in a brief space of time.

The captain and his nephew had their hands full, for assailants were on every side of them, 271 and the popping of their guns was continuous. The attack was so serious, and the defenders were in such a conspicuous position, that it was impossible to escape the storm of bullets flying all around them.

A quick start on the part of Thunderbolt showed that he had been hit, while almost at the same moment the rearing of the captain’s mustang proved that he, too, was hurt.

“Make your horse lie down,” called the elder.

Avon had already determined on this recourse, and seizing the head of his animal he ordered him down. Thunderbolt was well trained, but the hurt already received made him restless, and his young master had to engage in a partial struggle before he gathered his legs under him and rolled over on his side.

The instant he did so Avon knelt behind his body and was in the most favorable posture for defense.

Captain Shirril’s task proved more difficult. His horse refused to go down at his command, and it was necessary to throw him. He resisted 272 with such vigor that his owner dropped his rifle and was forced to use his utmost strength before he could trip and bring him to the earth. He still fought, and the captain, losing patience for the moment, forgot the whistling missiles and gave his whole attention to the brute, which he speedily conquered.

Avon was on the point of offering help, when he perceived that the mustang was mastered, and he once more turned to the enemy, now pressing his advantage to the utmost.

The Comanches were so close, and the opportunity for aiming effectively was so good, that the shots of the youth began to tell. Had the red men been compelled to maintain one position in front, a single person with a repeating Winchester could have stood off the whole party; but, as has been explained, the Indians were on every hand.

But Avon was not throwing away his cartridges. The very first shot bored its way through the bronzed skull of a shrieking warrior, and the second slew his pony with such suddenness that the two rolled together on the 273 plain, the warrior being unable to extricate himself from beneath his struggling mustang.

The young man, finding no one in his immediate front, turned toward a couple that were advancing from another point, but before he could make his aim sure, he was shocked to hear a groan from Captain Shirril.

“Are you hit?” asked the nephew, turning his scared face toward him.

“Yes, but still able to do something; bring your horse to his feet and make a dash for the camp. There isn’t an earthly chance for us here.”

“But I cannot leave you, uncle, and, if I could it would be impossible to run the gauntlet.”

“It’s our only hope; my horse is too badly hurt to carry me off, but you may succeed, if you ride hard.”

“It won’t do,” replied the nephew, who, had the prospect been ten-fold more favorable, could not have deserted his relative at such a time.

“Hurrah!” he exclaimed the next moment, “yonder come the boys!”

He had caught sight of their friends approaching over the ridge, their animals on a dead run.

“They will be too late,” said Captain Shirril, whose horse at that moment received another shot and renewed his frantic struggles to regain his feet. His owner interposed, but, he, too, was wounded and unable to put forth the strength that had conquered the brute a moment before.

Avon would have gone to his help had there been anything to gain by it.

“Let him go,” he said, “he can do you no good.”

“Yes, he can and he shall.”

As he spoke, the captain whipped out his revolver and drove a couple of bullets through the brain of the mustang. He expected him to drop dead on the instant, when he would serve the purpose intended of a breastwork for his master.

Avon had withdrawn his attention at the critical moment, fearful that the Comanches, realizing the straits of himself and companion, would overwhelm them before resistance could 275 be offered. Thus his head was turned away from the mortally hurt horse of the captain, which, instead of sinking helpless to the earth, made a frantic leap and fell upon the unprepared youth.

It seemed for the moment as if a mountain had descended upon him. He struggled fiercely to free himself, and in his desperate effort worked his head and shoulders clear, but while trying to draw his revolver for his last defence, he succumbed. The sunlight faded from before his eyes, all became blank darkness, and consciousness departed.