Now from the opposite slope echoed more shots. Indians here also! See them come, after that squad of scouts! Why didn’t the trappers get out from the wagons, and help? Why didn’t the cavvy travel faster? What a lot of Indians! And would the wagons be parked, in time, and would there be a hole left for the cavvy? Supposing there wasn’t, and he, Oliver, must stay outside! “Roust those critters! Roust those critters!” urged the men with Oliver, as in the dust and the hubbub and the excitement they all shrieked together. Almost crying, in his earnestness, little Oliver did his best. As fast as they arrived at trot and gallop the wagons swung to right and to left, tongues inside, front wheels locked with hind wheels of the previously arrived, the teams were unhitched, the teamsters knelt to thrust their yagers between the spokes and aim. Smaller and smaller grew the opening, as the oval closed――but amidst yell and murk, in through the opening galloped at last the cavvy, and like the rest little Oliver, breathless, gasping, found himself “forted.” None too soon was it! Down streamed, on either flank, the foe――a hideously screaming, whooping, feathered, painted foe: riding, many of them bridleless, most of them garmentless, brandishing tufted lance and strung bow, with here and there a gun, face and body daubed lavishly with red and yellow. “Kiowas!” ran through the wagon-fort the muttered exclamation. And―――― “Get out o’ there, you trappers! You Kit Carson men!” rose the angry cry. “Get out o’ yore holes an’ show what you can do!” But from within the wagons answered never a sound nor a stir. However, ’twas no time nor place, now, to berate the dastard mountain-men, so false to their reputation. The teamsters were green; the wagon-fort had been poorly formed, in the haste; the location was bad, for defense; and darting from wagon to wagon, along the circle, Captain Blunt and other leaders besought the defenders to keep cool and hold their fire. The painted Kiowas on-rushed as if they were to ride right over the wagons! “Bang!” spoke the yager of a teamster. And “Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bangity-bang!” bellowed the smooth-bores as his excited mates pulled triggers. In vain Captain Blunt and his aides ran, ordered, implored, threatened. The Kiowas were two hundred yards away; too far for a clumsy yager――but at the volley every one fell from his horse. Were they all killed? Were they? Hurrah, thought little Oliver. No――a fellow in bright yellow leggins was left! But at the “pop!” of little Oliver’s pistol he, also, fell over! Then―――― No! More were left, on this side; and on the other side! See? Even the yellow-leggins had come to life. Saddle-pad after saddle-pad miraculously grew a figure, and on dashed the Kiowas again, as many as ever, with joyous yelps charging empty guns. That was what they had hoped for――empty guns.