he saw the little streaks of dust in front of him.  Then the whistle of lead.  That made him shoot in return.  His horse lunged forward, almost throwing him, and ran the faster for his fright.  Neale heard Larry begin to shoot.  It became a running duel now, with the Indians scattering wide, riding low, yelling like demons, and keeping up a continuous volley.  They were well armed with white men’s guns.  Neale worked the lever of his rifle while he looked ahead for an instant to see where his horse was running; then he wheeled quickly and took a snap shot at the nearest Indian, no more than three hundred yards distant now.  He saw where his bullet, going wide, struck up the dust.  It was desperately hard to shoot from the back of a scared horse.  Neale did not notice that Larry’s shots were any more effective than his own.  He grew certain that the Sioux were gaining faster now.  But the work-train was not far away.  He saw the workmen on top of the cars waving their arms.  Rougher ground, though, on this last stretch.

Larry was drawing ahead.  He had used all the shells in his rifle and now with hand and spur was goading his horse.

Suddenly Neale heard the soft thud of lead striking flesh.  His horse leaped with a piercing snort of terror, and Neale thought he was going down.  But he recovered, and went plunging on, still swift and game, though with uneven gait.  Larry yelled.  His red face flashed back over his shoulder.  He saw something was wrong with Neale’s horse and he pulled his own.

“Save your own life!” yelled Neale, fiercely.  It enraged him to see the cowboy holding back to let him come up.  But he could not prevent it.

“He’s hit!” shouted Larry.

“Yes, but not badly,” shouted Neale, in reply.  “Spread out!”

The cowboy never swerved a foot.  He watched Neale’s horse with keen, sure eyes.

“He’s breakin’!  Mebbe he can’t last!”

Bullets whistled all around Neale now.  He heard them strike the stones on the ground and sing away; he saw them streak through the scant grass; he felt the tug at his shoulder where one cut through his coat, stinging the skin.  That touch, light as it was, drove the panic out of him.  The strange darkness before his eyes, hard to see through, passed away.  He wheeled to shoot again, and with deliberation he aimed as best he could.  Yet he might as well have tried to hit flying birds.  He emptied the Winchester.

Then, hunching low in the saddle, Neale hung on.  Slingerland was close to the train; Brush on his side appeared to be about out of danger; the pursuit had narrowed down to Neale and Larry.  The anger and the grimness faded from Neale.  He did not want to go plunging down in front of those lean wild mustangs, to be ridden over and trampled and mutilated.  The thought sickened him.  The roar of pursuing hoofs grew distinct, but Neale did not look back.

Another roar broke on his ear—­the clamor of the Irish soldier-laborers as they yelled and fired.