to his own, weighing them both. "Heavy as all git out," he
remarked. "Wall, 'twon't weigh nothin' when it's slung ter a saddle.
Might be handy purty soon. Much obliged, friends. How we goin' ter git
th' powder an' lead ter ye?"

"I've arranged fer that," said Tom, picking up his rifle. "Wall, good
luck, boys. Remember us at Bent's if ye git thar."

"Reckon it's you boys that need th' good luck," grimly replied the
leader. He watched the two visitors until they were lost to sight in the
brush and then turned to his men, his eyes flaming again. "Break camp,
boys; we're crossin' th' river close by, ter circle back ag'in farther
up."

Tom and Hank, moving silently back toward the encampment, had covered
about half of the distance when they heard a sudden burst of shots,
yells, and the thunder of hoofs. Running up the side of a little hill
they peered over the top and flung themselves down. Less than two
hundred paces away a little party of tenderfeet, with Patience Cooper in
the center, fought frightened horses as a band of nearly a dozen Indians
came charging straight for them across the little clearing. As they
looked one of the tenderfeet's horse went down, spilling its rider, and
throwing the group into still greater confusion.

"'Rapahoes!" snorted Hank, and his rifle spoke. "_One_ fer my cache!"

The double-barreled rifle of his companion roared twice and another
warrior plunged from his horse, while the third fought madly to keep his
seat, but his weakening grasp loosened and he rolled over and over
across the grass. Tom dropped the empty rifle and started to rise, his
hand leaping to the Colt revolver at his belt; but Hank, who had slipped
the newly-acquired repeating rifle from its sheath, poked it into his
friend's hand and fell to re-loading his Hawken. "She's yore gal. Give
'em hell!" he grunted.

The deadly and unexpected attack from the little hilltop created a
diversion which for the moment turned the thoughts of the savages from
the tenderfeet in the open, and the charging line split to pass the
forlorn group and give its full attention to the real menace; but as it
hesitated the heavy, regular crashes of the revolving rifle rolled from
the hill, its lead always selecting the warrior nearest to the
panic-stricken group. Here an Indian went down, there a horse; and with
the cry "_Tejanos!_" the rest of the savage band wheeled and dashed over
the route they had come. The last warrior to reach the edge of