Bert’s unerring rifle never failed of its mark, and whenever an Indian raised his head ever so little over his horse’s back the Winchester spoke and one more still form was added to the many already strewed over the ground.  The revolvers barked steadily and terrible havoc was wrought among the ranks of the attacking redmen.

But now their savage blood was up, and death itself had lost its power to daunt them.  Slowly the circle about the besieged constricted, and suddenly the attackers, at a given signal, abandoned their horses and, springing to the ground, rushed forward, shooting and emitting blood-curdling yells as they ran.

“Stand together, boys,” yelled Buck, “we’ll stand back to back and fight it out to the bitter end.”

Nobody had time to answer, but they did as he suggested.  The Indians were now close upon them, and with wild yells mounted the low embankment that had hitherto protected the white men.  Rifles were useless at this short range, and Bert and the stage driver clubbed theirs and met the first savages over the embankment with death-dealing blows from the clubbed weapons.  The savages pressed forward so fiercely and in such numbers that soon even this became of no avail, and they had recourse to their revolvers.  The six-shooters barked steady streams of fire, doing fearful execution among the packed ranks of the attacking redmen.

The Indians were now fighting chiefly with knives, and the defenders began to suffer, too.  One of the passengers dropped to the ground under a wicked thrust from the knife of a giant Indian, who seemed to be the leader.  Then the big redskin, encouraging his fierce followers by voice and action, threw himself toward Dick, who happened to be nearest him.  Dick had just fired the last shot from his revolver, and he had no time to reload.  As the Indian sprang at him Dick clubbed his revolver, and made a terrific swing at the shaven head of his attacker.  The savage dodged with the agility of a cat, and the blow merely glanced from his shoulder.  With a yell of exultation the Indian raised his sharp knife, still dripping with the blood of its last victim.  But before the weapon could descend, Bert’s fist shot out like lightning, catching the redskin a terrific blow under the chin.  The Indian’s head snapped back, and he was almost lifted from the ground by the impact.  Then he fell limply, and the fight waged on over his unconscious form.

The attackers, instead of being daunted by the fall of their leader, seemed spurred to an even greater pitch of ferocity, and fought like very demons.  The whites, fighting silently and grimly, resolved to sell their lives as dearly as might be, presented a solid front and battled with the grim courage and ferocity of desperation.  Bert and Dick and Tom fought as one unit, and again and again repelled the assaults of their swarming enemies.