Before long the assailants began operations. Hardly one retained an upright position on his steed for more than a few seconds at a time. They flung themselves forward, as if in wantonness, their painted faces appearing below their horses' necks, with their long black hair streaming away, as if it were a part of the mane of their steeds. Then they extended themselves seemingly along the spine of their animals, as if for slumber in the sun. While the steeds sped back and forth, the riders lolled here and there on their backs, as though it was impossible for them to lose their balance. Trying as were the circumstances, Captain Shirril could not help admiring the equestrian exhibition, which could not have been excelled. But he quickly proved that he meant business of the most serious kind. He fixed his attention on one of the half-naked miscreants, who was not only nearer than any of his companions, but kept edging closer. For a time, he maintained himself on the further side of his mustang, seeming to hold himself in place by the toe of one of his moccasins thrust over the spine at the haunches, with hardly less significant help from a hand at the base of the neck. When the horse wheeled to return over his own trail, as he frequently did, the matchless rider, with a grace that was inimitable, swung himself over in a corresponding position on the other side, so as to preserve the body of his steed as a shield. Without warning, he discharged his rifle from beneath the neck of the animal, and the excellence of his aim was proven by the whiz of the bullet near the head of Captain Shirril. But the latter was not disturbed. He was biding his time, and knew the opportunity was near. Suddenly the mustang wheeled again. At the moment of doing so, he was closer to the defenders than at any period before. The rider rose to view for a moment, like a leaper going over a fence sideways. Then as he descended on the other side of the steed, he continued descending until he struck the ground, where he rolled over a single time and never stirred again. At the critical instant, Captain Shirril had fired. An ear-splitting screech followed, and that particular Comanche was eliminated from the problem that confronted him. The riderless horse flung up his head, with a whinny of affright, and, looking hither and thither, as if unable to understand the meaning of the occurrence, dashed off to join his companions, further away on the prairie. The thin puff of smoke had not lifted from before the captain's face, when his nephew let fly at one of the warriors, who was extended along the back of his animal, as if inviting a shot. Avon missed, and the Indian, with astonishing quickness, brought his own gun to a level and fired in return. The ball nipped the brim of his sombrero, passing so close that for a second the youth believed he was hit.