“God!” cried Eddie. “They got him now, they got him.” Byrne stirred and struggled to rise. “Like'll they got me,” he said, and staggered to his knees. Over the breastwork he saw a half-dozen Indians running rapidly toward the shelter--he saw them in a haze of red that was caused not by blood but by anger. With an oath Billy Byrne leaped to his feet. From his knees up his whole body was exposed to the enemy; but Billy cared not. He was in a berserker rage. Whipping his carbine to his shoulder he let drive at the advancing Indians who were now beyond hope of cover. They must come on or be shot down where they were, so they came on, yelling like devils and stopping momentarily to fire upon the rash white man who stood so perfect a target before them. But their haste spoiled their marksmanship. The bullets zinged and zipped against the rocky little fortress, they nicked Billy's shirt and trousers and hat, and all the while he stood there pumping lead into his assailants--not hysterically; but with the cool deliberation of a butcher slaughtering beeves. One by one the Pimans dropped until but a single Indian rushed frantically upon the white man, and then the last of the assailants lunged forward across the breastwork with a bullet from Billy's carbine through his forehead. Eddie Shorter had raised himself painfully upon an elbow that he might witness the battle, and when it was over he sank back, the blood welling from between his set teeth. Billy turned to look at him when the last of the Pimans was disposed of, and seeing his condition kneeled beside him and took his head in the hollow of an arm. “You orter lie still,” he cautioned the Kansan. “Tain't good for you to move around much.” “It was worth it,” whispered Eddie. “Say, but that was some scrap. You got your nerve standin' up there against the bunch of 'em; but if you hadn't they'd have rushed us and some of 'em would a-got in.” “Funny the boys don't come,” said Billy. “Yes,” replied Eddie, with a sigh; “it's milkin' time now, an' I figgered on goin' to Shawnee this evenin'. Them's nice cookies, maw. I--” Billy Byrne was bending low to catch his feeble words, and when the voice trailed out into nothingness he lowered the tousled red head to the hard earth and turned away. Could it be that the thing which glistened on the eyelid of the toughest guy on the West Side was a tear? The afternoon waned and night came, but it brought to Billy Byrne neither renewed attack nor succor. The bullet which had dropped him momentarily had but creased his forehead. Aside from the fact that he was blood covered from the wound it had inconvenienced him in no way, and now that darkness had fallen he commenced to plan upon leaving the shelter.