“I notice,” said Dave Johnson, as he lay at full length behind a stump, his rifle advanced, his eyes on the dark-skinned enemy, “that there’s a bullet comes now and then from over there to the right. One of the braves must have a rifle.” “It’s Moccasin Williams,” replied Kit Carson, from behind a near-by tree. “He’s behind that big cottonwood at the mouth of the ravine, trying some sharpshooting.” “I’d like to get a----” but Dave never finished the sentence, for Kit’s rifle cracked and the bark flew from the big cottonwood in a shower, leaving a deep seam to show the track of the bullet. “Missed!” said Kit, coolly. “But better luck next time.” In a little while the Indians pressed forward under cover; then, thinking themselves near enough for a rush, they leaped from behind the trees and with shrill yells and brandished hatchets and knives, darted at the trappers. The long rifles greeted them once more; but as they still came on, the pistols were discharged in their very faces with terrible effect. This was more than savage fortitude could bear up under, and they sought cover once more with howls of rage and a fresh flight of arrows. Then closer and closer they drew and slower and slower grew the fire of the whites. There were but few charges of powder left. Another rush of the savages, and there would be no more. “It looks bad,” said old Zeke, as he drained his powder-horn of its last grain. “But we’ll give a good account of ourselves for all.” But a last desperate struggle with knife and clubbed rifle was not to come, for as the powder was quite exhausted, word was brought to Kit that the reserve of trappers under Fontenelle had arrived. And soon after, each horn was refilled, each rifle recharged, and with the confidence of increased numbers the trappers advanced, firing as they went. In the van of the whites was the half-breed, Lopez; he held his rifle ready, but seemed to reserve his fire. Kit Carson, firing and loading and firing and loading, noticed this. “Anything wrong with your shooting iron, Spotted Snake?” asked the trapper. “No,” replied the half-breed, never taking his eyes from the flitting line of savages as they moved from cover to cover. “But the bullet that’s in it is meant for Moccasin Williams, and him only.” Steadily the trappers pressed forward; quicker and quicker grew the flitting of the savages from rock to tree and from tree to stump; and at length the crafty retreat began to weaken, then to waver. There was less purpose in it; finally the braves at one side broke and ran; then the entire line followed suit. Now for the first time since he entered the action, the rifle of Lopez lifted. The boys saw an ungainly white man in the rush of the fleeing savages; he had sandy hair and a thin, fox-like face. A dozen steps he took, the fox-face turned over his shoulder to observe the pursuers, then Lopez’ piece crashed and the man pitched forward to the ground.