“’Tain’t so; d’ye think the boys in Farrell’s brigade yell like that? Them’s Injuns, but what tribe and why they ar’ sailing in on the Blackfeet, the devil may know. Let’s rush out and help ’em, anyhow.” The wound of Dave Farrell was at best but a slight one, and rushing out with Old Pegs and Rafe Norris, all armed with heavy rifles, they began to blaze away at the now retreating Blackfeet. Assailed thus in front, flank and rear, these gallant men did not give up but fought with a devotion to their leader which would have done credit to men of a higher civilization. One by one they dropped from their saddles until only five were left, and among these the brave chief Whirlwind, who had passed unscathed through the hail-storm of leaden balls. “Dogs!” cried the chief, shaking his lance in the air. “Whirlwind will go, but when he comes again his vengeance will be terrible.” Calling to the few men who surrounded him he wheeled his horse and dashed away across the little valley, making no further effort to force his way through the pass which was so closely environed by his enemies. Many dusky figures darted from the bushes on every hand, and shot after shot was sent after the flying horsemen, and while they were yet within short rifle range three of Whirlwind’s men dropped bleeding to the earth. But the chief seemed to bear a charmed life and disappeared behind a clump of trees near the center of the glade. Many Indians were seen racing after him on foot, and it needed but a glance to show Old Pegs that they were Modoc Sioux, the inveterate enemies of the Blackfeet. “Git cover, quick!” cried the old hunter. “They’ll see us.” “It is of no use to hide,” replied Rafe Norris. “I, for one, mean to yield myself a prisoner, and I advise you to do the same.” The words had scarcely left his lips when he experienced a strange sensation. A vise-like grip fell upon his shoulder, and the steel muzzle of a pistol was pressed against his temple. This pistol was held by Dave Farrell, whose teeth were firmly set and whose eyes seemed to emit flashes of light. “Move a step until I order you, wag a finger even, and you die.” “What means this conduct?” hissed Rafe, white with contending passions. “Do you mean to murder me in cold blood?” “Not a bit of it. You see those Indians coming this way, don’t you?” “What of that?” “Order them to halt.” “I don’t know what you mean. Am I to be killed like a dog, you old villain? Why do you stand there like a stone and make no effort to aid me?” “Better do as Dave asks you, Rafe. It ain’t a bad plan to try the ’speriment.” “But I know nothing of these Indians.” “Ef Dave hez made a mistake he’s ter make it right with you,” answered Old Pegs. “One more chance before I scatter your brains upon the sod,” hissed Dave. “Will you stop those Indians? Speak their language—you know how.”