The fight was every man for himself, and all together to keep the Indians from breaking away. The grove was a pandemonium. Ned had dashed forward alone. He passed the first of the tipis in his path; and there came Mary, fluttering bravely, dodging hard; behind, his hand even now outstretched, his countenance scowling evilly, was a large Indian warrior. Cut Nose? Maybe. Who he was did not matter. Again Ned shouted, and spurred Buckie. He leaned, and thrust forward his revolver, to pull trigger. The big Indian was a fair mark, at the short range; but of course the bullet must not hit Mary. Now she had stumbled on a tent peg, and was down. But Buckie was almost upon her; so was the Indian. Strung bow, with arrow fitted, was in his hand, as he ran; he was quick-witted, for at token of Ned on Buckie disputing his claim his arrow was instantly at his eye, bow-string drawn to an arc, and iron point leveled at Ned’s breast. [Illustration: THE BIG INDIAN WAS A FAIR MARK, BUT THE BULLET MUST NOT HIT MARY] Ned scarcely had time to check Buckie, fling himself to one side, and pull trigger. He was conscious that the twang of the bow and the bark of his Colt’s sounded together. Then a terrific blow in the face blinded him with starry red, and sent him dizzily reeling down, down. His feet slipped from the stirrups, and he landed in a heap. He must not stay there. His head was numb with the shock, but his mind worked frenziedly. What was happening to Mary? What would happen to himself? The great fear of the scalping-knife and of the tearing by cruel hands stung him more than did the pain now increasing. He squirmed to his knees, revolver cocked, and tried hard to see. Before his one eye the tipis swam vaguely. Was he here alone? Where were the other troopers? Was that light spot Mary? Was Cut Nose coming? Or did the big Indian lie huddled upon the trampled snow at the base of the tipi on the right, his outstretched fingers touching the little girl figure whose face was hidden in her arms! Fast Ned crawled across, revolver ready. The big Indian did not stir; in one hand his bow was clutched splintered; under him the snow was reddening. Ned threw aside his wild-beast caution. “Mary!” he called. “Get up. Quick.” She raised her head, and stared, startled, blue eyes wide. “Who are you?” she quavered. “I’m Ned. I’m brother Ned. I’ll save you.” “Oh, Ned!” she cried, scrambling to him. “You’re hurt! You’ve got an arrow sticking right in your head.” Ned put up his hand, in haste to feel. His fingers met the feathered end of an arrow, jutting from his face. An excruciating pain sped through his head and down his back; and frightened, he fainted. XVII AFTER THE BATTLE