ow. It was followed almost
instantly by a second and a third. The Indians ducked low on their
horses' necks and, wheeling, made for the willows. In the quick dash
for cover one horse stumbled and threw his rider. The animal bolted
and the Indian, springing to his feet, ran like a deer after his
companions, but he did not escape unscathed. Two shots followed him
from the station, and the Indian, falling with a bullet in his thigh,
dragged himself wounded into hiding.

A chorus of cries from far and near heralded the opening of the
encounter. Enraged by the repulse, a larger number of Indians riding
in opened fire on the station and Bucks found himself target for a
fusillade of bullets. But protected by his barricades he was only
fearful of a charge, for when the Indians should start to rush the
station he felt all would be over.

While he lay casting up his chances, and discharging his revolver at
intervals to make a showing, the fire of the Indians slackened. This,
Bucks felt, boded no good, and reckless of his store of cartridges he
continued to blaze away whenever he could see a bush moving.

It was at this moment that he heard the despatcher calling him, and a
message followed. "If you are alive, answer me."

Bucks ran to the key. The situation was hopeless. No train was in
sight as he pressed his fingers on the button for the last time.

"Stopped their first advance and wounded one. They are going to
charge----"

He heard a sharp chorus outside and, feeling what it meant, sent his
last word: "Good-by." From three sides of the open ground around the
building the Indians were riding down upon him. Firing as fast as he
could with any accuracy, he darted from window to window, reaching the
west window last. As he looked out he saw up the valley the smoke of
the approaching train and understood from the fury of his enemies that
they, too, had seen it. But the sight of the train now completely
unnerved him. To lose his life with help a few moments away was an
added bitterness, and he saw that the relief train would be too late
to save him.

He fired the last cartridge in his hot revolver at the circling braves
and, as he reloaded, the Indians ran up on the platform and threw
themselves against the door. Fiendish faces peered through the
window-panes and one Indian smashed a sash in with a war club.

Bucks realized that his reloading was useless. The cartridges were, in
fact, slipping through his fingers, when, d