The arrows were hissing and thudding. The painted Indians looked like demons. Ben flung up his gun, took hasty aim, and at the report the nearest Indian on the left (a particularly determined fellow) swerved away, reeling in his saddle pad. Red spots could be seen on his side where the buck-shot had struck. At the rear the cavalrymen were shooting vainly, and suddenly Waupsie gave an exclamation. “Take these lines, quick!” he said. “Confound it!” An arrow had pinned his right arm to his side. He jerked at it and could not budge it, and Ben grabbed the lines. “You take my gun, Dave,” he ordered. “Don’t shoot unless you have to; and then shoot the ponies. Fight ’em off.” Dave promptly seized the gun from Ben’s lap, and at once he saw the reason in the last order. The Indians were racing on either side; whenever he raised the gun to aim every Indian on that side ducked to the opposite flank of his horse, and left only a moccasin sole in sight. That was a small mark at which to aim from a jolting coach. Dave aimed and aimed again; whenever he paused, up bobbed the Indians; when he pointed the gun at them, down they ducked; and all the time they were shooting from underneath their ponies’ necks or from the saddle. “That’s right. Fight ’em off, Davy. It’s as good as emptying your gun,” panted Ben, hanging hard to the lines. Waupsie was plying the whip――now and then to drop it and level his revolver. [Illustration: “THAT’S RIGHT. FIGHT ’EM OFF, DAVY”] “Fight ’em off, Davy!” A sharp shock almost paralyzed Dave’s right arm, and through shoulder and arm surged a red-hot pain. He nearly dropped the gun. He glanced at his shoulder and saw a flush of crimson dyeing his shirt. But no arrow was sticking there as he had feared. It was only a gash. All right. “Hurt, Dave?” queried Ben. “No, not much,” said Davy, firmly. “We’ll make it,” uttered Waupsie. “Got to. Fight ’em off, boys!” The sandy plain flowed past; another horse had been wounded and the coach was fairly bristling with shafts. But the gallant team never slackened their furious pace, and suddenly with a final chorus of whoops and a last volley, the Indians turned and raced away; for yonder, around the turn, appeared the home station. “Humph!” muttered Waupsie. “Those Injuns are just on a lark. Now I’ll get quit of this arrow.” The cavalry squad did not arrive until after the coach had left; another squad escorted it to Fort Kearney, and by the time Atchison was reached, two days afterward, Dave’s shoulder was beginning to heal. “It doesn’t hurt much, really, Ben,” he insisted; but he was proud of his wound. The scar he carries to-day and other scars besides. From Atchison he and Ben went down to Leavenworth. On the street at Leavenworth a hand clapped him on his shoulder (fortunately his well shoulder), and looking up he looked into the face of Billy Cody. XXIV BUFFALO BILL IS CHAMPION