“You talk foolish,” thundered Cut Nose. “These whites cannot keep shooting. All we need to do is to charge swift and not stop, and when we reach them their guns will be empty. Shall Cheyennes draw back and leave three brothers and a good pony lying on the prairie? These whites will go on and join their whoa-haw train, and tell how they three, from behind dead mules, fought off the whole Cheyenne nation! Or shall we send our squaws against them, to kill them! The little white boy will laugh,” and he pointed at Dave. “He will not want to be a Cheyenne; he will stay white. Cheyennes are cowards.” Through the jostling company ran a hot murmur; but Lame Buffalo, especially scolded, almost burst. “No!” he yelled. “Cheyennes are not cowards! I am a Cheyenne. I can kill those three whites myself. I will go alone. I ask no help.” He whirled his pony; he burst from the dense ring, and tossing high his plumed lance, with a tremendous shout he launched himself straight for the mule fort. He did not ride alone; no, indeed! Answering his shout, and imitating his gesture, every warrior followed, vying to outstrip him. Now woe for the whites. Dave’s heart beat so as well-nigh to choke him. His eyes leaped to the fort. The two men and the boy in the little triangle had been busy. They had rearranged the carcasses to give more protection; the arrow had been pulled from the shoulder of the wounded man; he was as alert as if he had not been hurt at all; and over the mule bodies jutted the gun muzzles, trained upon the Indian charge. Could that tiny low triangle formed by three dead mules outlast such a yelling, tearing mob, sweeping down upon it? Could it beat back Lame Buffalo alone――that splendid feather-crowned horseman, riding like a demon, shouting like a wolf? He still led, and with every few jumps of his pony he shook his lance and whooped. Well might those three whites in the mule triangle be afraid, at last; and who could blame the boy, there, if he, particularly, was afraid? It was a bad place for a boy. Dave watched him anxiously, and wondered. The boy was facing toward the charge; the two men also were facing outward, to right and left of him, that they might cover the charge as it spread. Up rose the boy’s gun; the two men seemed to be waiting upon him. He was aiming, but he would not shoot yet, would he, with the Indians so far off? Yet, he shot! His gun muzzle puffed smoke. The squaws started, cried out, waved frantic hands――for three hundred yards from the muzzle had toppled, toppled from his pony, Lame Buffalo, smitten in mid-course! It seemed to Dave that he could hear the two white men cheering; but to the cries of the squaws were added the terrific yells of the warriors, drowning out every other sound.