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He whirled his pony; he burst from the dense ring, and tossing high his plumed lance, with a tremendous shout he launched himself straight for the mule fort. He did not ride alone; no, indeed! Answering his shout, and imitating his gesture, every warrior followed, vying to outstrip him. Now woe for the whites. Dave’s heart beat so as well-nigh to choke him. His eyes leaped to the fort.

The two men and the boy in the little triangle had been busy. They had rearranged the carcasses to give more protection; the arrow had been pulled from the shoulder of the wounded man; he was as alert as if he had not been hurt at all; and over the mule bodies jutted the gun muzzles, trained upon the Indian charge.

Could that tiny low triangle formed by three dead mules outlast such a yelling, tearing mob, sweeping down upon it? Could it beat back Lame Buffalo alone—that splendid feather-crowned horseman, riding like a demon, shouting like a wolf? He still led, and with every few jumps of his pony he shook his lance and whooped.