This party it was that now confronted the Kiowas, under guidance of the ex-captain of Night Hawks. Mestayer was by no means pleased at the meeting, for he saw that the settlers were nearly equal in numbers to the Kiowas, and he also knew that they were much better armed, each man bearing a rifle and at least one revolver, more generally two of these terrible weapons. As the Kiowas were nominally at peace with the whites, a collision might and probably would have been avoided, only for one thing. Jack Colton was among the trail-hunters, and he recognized the would-be murderer of his brother. With a wild cry he plunged spurs rowel-deep into his horse’s flanks and sprung forward, leveling his rifle as he did so. It cracked—one of the savages riding close behind Mestayer, uttered a shrill death-yell, and fell to the ground, dead. That put an end to all doubt. Sounding his war-cry, Chigilli led the charge, and the next moment the two bodies were mingled together. For several minutes the conflict raged with deadly ferocity, but the superior weapons of the settlers quickly turned the tide in their favor. Jack Colton had singled out the outlaw guide, and nothing loth, Mestayer gratified his desire, though still feeling the effects of his wounds. Their horses came violently together just as their pistols spoke for the first time. Rearing, Colton’s horse received the bullet between its eyes and fell, hurling Colton violently to the ground, where he lay, stunned for the moment. Mestayer discharged a second shot at him, but with unsteady aim, and a slight flesh wound was the only result; then he was forced to turn his attention to other foemen. Chigilli gave the signal to retreat, seeing that he was over-matched. The hills were near at hand, and for them their horses’ heads were turned, in full flight. So sudden was this movement that the settlers did not comprehend its meaning until the Kiowas had gained full two-score yards the start. But then they dashed on in hot pursuit. No man living understands better how to extract every ounce of service from a mustang than does a Kiowa, and though riding by far the most jaded horses, they slowly increased their vantage-ground, aided by the fact that the settlers devoted much of their care to pistol practice; at best but an uncertain art while riding a galloping horse. They realized their error and strove to remedy it, but too late. The Kiowas had gained too many yards to be overtaken, and the cunning Chigilli well knew what he was about. He was rushing for a point from which his force could easily hold the settlers in check, or at least inflict fearful slaughter in case they should try a desperate charge first. Zeb Ruel divined their purpose first, and kept the settlers from going too far. He knew a plan worth two of that, and as the Kiowas disappeared in a narrow, defile-like cleft, the settlers drew rein.