slope; the other has plunged forward
and lies stone-dead upon the sward. Even at the echo of the carbines,
however, popping up from across the ridge a mile away, there come
whirling into view a score of red and glittering horsemen, sweeping
down in broad, fan-shaped course, at top speed of their racing ponies,
yelling like mad, and lashing their nimble steeds to the rescue. Two
minutes of that gait, and the captain and his little squad will be
surrounded.

"Mount! mount!" shouts McLean, as he turns and rushes down the slope,
followed by his picket-guard. "Lively now, sergeant. Run to the
captain. Don't wait for me!"

"Come on, all you fellers!" is Sergeant Wallace's characteristic
rallying cry; and away goes the little troop, like a flock of quail.
McLean is in the saddle in an instant, and full tilt in pursuit.

Not a moment too soon! Even before the leading troopers have reached
the two "horse-holders" under the bluffs, both above and below the
captain's position, the plumed and painted warriors have flashed up on
the ridge and taken him in flank. Without the prompt aid of his men he
would be surrounded in the twinkling of an eye. Already these daring
flankers have opened fire on the knot of horsemen, when McLean shouts
to some of the rearmost to follow him, and veering to the left he rides
straight at the Indians who have appeared nearest him along the bluffs.
Two of the troopers follow unhesitatingly; others sheer off toward
their main body. There's too much risk in darting right into the teeth
of a pack of mounted Sioux, even to follow an officer. Wary and
watchful the Indians mark his coming. Circling out to right and left
they propose to let him in, then follow their old tactics of a
surround. He never heeds their manoeuvres; his aim is to get to close
quarters with any one of them and fight it out, as Highland chieftains
fought in the old, old days of target and claymore. He never heeds the
whistle of the bullets past his ears as one after another the nearest
Indians take hurried shots at him. Straight as a dart he flies at a
tall savage who pops up on the ridge in front of him. The long
Springfield is slung now, and he grasps the gleaming revolver in his
hand. Twice the Indian fires, the lever of his Henry rifle working like
mad, but the bullets whiz harmlessly by; then, with no time to reload,
and dreading the coming shock, he ducks quickly over his nimble
piebald's neck and strives to lash him out of the w