Camp Zarah was only a mile and a half before. The clothes delayed the Indians behind; those already here were still prodding at the mules. The lances proved too slow. A warrior fitted an arrow, drew to the point, and let go. He had intended to kill a mule, but he only wounded it in the fore leg. The blood spurted--ah! Look out! Great Caesar! That was a lucky shot, for the wagon. The other mule saw the blood, and smelled it. He bolted at such a gait that he actually out-ran the Indians while he dragged the wagon and the disabled mule! Camp Zarah was in sight. Would they make it? Alas! The mules were stumbling; were near spent. They had run a great race, but they could not hold to it forever. The Indians were gaining rapidly. "If we're taken, Cap, we'll fight; we'll kick, scratch, bite, till they kill us. We won't stand for torture," panted the lieutenant. "I agree." The lieutenant yelled and whipped; the captain yelled and kicked the wounded mule in the flanks; the Indians arrived, and prodded; the mules dodged the lances--they seemed to know. Only a few yards from the bridge did the last Indian pursuer give up the chase; and as the wagon rattled over the corduroy the carbine of a sentry at the post sounded the alarm. "No need to drive so fast now, Hallowell," spoke the captain. The jolting was terrific. "I sha'n't stop till we're clear across," rapped the lieutenant. The staggering mules white with lather and crimsoned with blood, the wagon as full of holes as a sieve, they pulled in to the commanding officer's tent. They were safe. Lieutenant Hallowell could not stand up. Was he fatally hurt? "What is it, Hallowell, old fellow?" "I dunno. Can't move only so far." "No wonder! It's your coat-tails, man!" The tails of his overcoat had worked outside and were pinned fast to the wagon box by four arrows. He could not use his right arm, either. The steady threshing with the whip had almost paralyzed it. He was helped into the surgeon's office. His right hand was badly torn, and the wound in his back serious. Captain Booth watched the wounds being dressed; didn't feel very comfortable, himself, somehow. "What makes you shrug your shoulders so, captain?" "I don't know. There's a curious smarting." "I should say there was! Why, you're wearing an arrow-head, man!" So he was. When he had wrenched free from the wagon-sheet cover he had taken an arrow-head with him. It had to be cut out. They both got well. Twenty-two arrows were found in the wagon box; the whole vehicle was a sight! As for the plucky little mules, they never amounted to much for service, after that, but they managed to hobble around in their pasture and enjoy their reward as veterans, on a pension of the best grass and water. [1] See "Boys' Book of Indian Warriors." CHAPTER XIX RELIEF FOR BEECHER'S ISLAND (1868) AND A RATTLE-SNAKE IN THE WAY