Here, then, was the explanation of the fanlike spreading out of the line of Indians. They knew that the white men would be trapped by the fence, and they were cutting off the retreat--and keeping out of the hottest danger-zone of the white men's guns. Even while the four were grasping the full significance of the trap that they had ridden into unaware, the Indians topped the ridge behind them, yip-yip-yipping gleefully their coyotelike yells of triumph. The sound so stirred the slow wrath of Lite Avery that, without waiting for the word from Applehead he twisted half around in his saddle, glanced at the nearest Indian along his rifle-sights, bent his forefinger with swift deliberation upon the trigger, and emptied the saddle of one yelling renegade, who made haste to crawl behind a clump of rabbit weed. “They howl like a mess uh coyotes,” Lite observed in justification of the shot, “and I'm getting sick of hearing 'em.” “Mama!” Weary, exclaimed annoyedly, “that darn fence is on an up-slope, so it's going to be next to impossible to jump it! I guess here's where we do about an eight-hundred-foot scene of Indian Warfare, or Fighting For Their Lives. How yuh feel, Cadwalloper?” “Me?” Pink's eyes were purple with sheer, fighting rage. “I feel like cleaning out that bunch back there. They'll have something to howl about when I get through!” “Stay back uh me, boys!” Applehead's voice had a masterful sharpness that made the three tighten reins involuntarily. “You foller me and don't crowd up on me, neither. Send back a shot or two if them Injuns gits too ambitious.” The three fell in behind him without cavil or question. He was in charge of the outfit, and that settled it. Pink, released from irksome inaction by the permission to shoot, turned and fired back at the first Indian his sights rested upon. He saw a spurt of sand ten jumps in advance of his target, and he swore and fired again without waiting to steady his aim. The sorrel pack-horse, loping along fifty yards or so behind with a rhythmic clump-clump of frying-pan against coffee-pot at every leap he took, swerved sharply, shook his head as though a bee had stung him, and came on with a few stiff-legged “crow hops” to register his violent objection to being shot through the ear. Pink, with an increased respect for the shooting skill of Lite Avery, glanced guiltily at the others to see if they had observed where his second bullet hit. But the others were eyeing Applehead uneasily and paid no attention to Pink or his attempts to hit an Indian on the run. And presently Pink forgot it also while he watched Applehead, who was apparently determined to commit suicide in a violently original form. “You fellers keep behind, now---and hold the Injuns back fer a minute er two,” Applehead yelled while he set himself squarely in the saddle, gathered up his reins as though he were about to “top a bronk” and jabbed the spurs with a sudden savageness into Johnny's flanks.