Then, with the knoll almost within grasp, up from the tall grass leaped the twenty or more Indians supposed to be dead. From fifty yards they poured in a smashing volley. Down crumpled Private Smith, in a heap. Sergeant Woodall was shot through the side, John Harrington through the hip, Peter Roth through the shoulder. It had been an Indian trick. The warriors had purposely tumbled from their ponies, here; the warriors behind had purposely driven the white men within short range. But the five gained the knoll; they had to leave Private Smith for dead. On the top of the knoll there was an old buffalo wallow--a shallow cup like a small circus ring. The cup was only a foot or two deep, but the grassy rim helped. The Indians veered from the black muzzles resting upon the ring, and drew off, to wait and jeer, and form another circle. "We mustn't show we're wounded, boys," Sergeant Woodall ordered, sick with his own pain. "Move about, act lively; we'll lick 'em yet. And save your lead for close quarters." "Smith's not dead! I see him stirring!" cried somebody. "There he is! But he can't make in." "They'll get him after dark, then," groaned Private Roth. "That's tough, fellows. I'd rather he was dead." Amos Chapman laid down his carbine. "They sha'n't get him. You boys keep those infernal redskins off me and I'll run down and pick him up and fetch him back before they can stop me." Without waiting for answer, he dashed out, and down the little slope. He and Scout Dixon were the only two not disabled. George Smith was lying seventy or seventy-five yards out. It was a long way to go, and a longer way back under a load. But Amos reached him, before the Indians knew what was up. Then--