Realizing, the panicky teamsters fumbled and made mistakes, as rattling their pieces among the wagon-spokes they would pour powder, ram ball, prime pan, cock, aim, fire. Disdaining to hang now by thong-loops upon the opposite side of their horses, with bows drawn, lances poised, and a gun or two speaking, the wild redmen of the sand-hills bore headlong for the weakly answering caravan. So swiftly they neared! Ere half the yagers had been reloaded they were within fifty yards. Could anything stop them? With thud upon thud their arrows pelted in and through. Their paint patterns were plain, their faces glared, their guttural exclamations could be heard――and boy Oliver, with one last frantic glance about, dived under a low-hung wagon. Even as he did so, he heard a new sound. It was not “Bang!” and “Bang!” It was “Spat!” “Spat! Spat!” and “Whing!” The wagon over him swayed, a fresh fume of powder-smoke floated to his nostrils. The trappers! He had forgotten the trappers! They had fired, at last, from beneath the wagon-covers――but they were too late. It seemed to little Oliver that he waited a long time for the charge. He still heard the whoops and grunts of the Kiowas, right at hand――they were coming, coming, coming! They would scalp the whole caravan, and steal all the cavvy! And while he waited, clutching his pistol, another sound arose. Inside the wagon-fort was a new commotion――a clamor of voices, a shuffling of hasty feet, a rattle of stirrup and a thud of many hoofs! Had the Kiowas broken through? They must! The wagon over him swayed again, something struck it, almost shoved it to one side; he peered, craning his neck to see into the dust――and a set of hoofs passed right over his head. He glimpsed a buckskin rider, on the _outside_; a trapper had forced his horse between the loosely locked wheels of the two wagons, and was on the _outside_! The Kiowas were here, too. Many were upon the ground, and the red which stained them was redder than the red of vermilion paint. Yes, many and many were upon the ground. But the others were charging about; little Oliver had not been waiting long, after all. He knelt, trembling in his eagerness. There were still a host of Kiowas, and they were very angry. The wagon-fort must be fairly oozing trappers, mounted; for from either direction they were galloping into the field, their lines loose, their buckskin-clad, fringed bodies leaning forward, pistol in hand. Across the little space, to the line of prone and doubled figures they raced. “Bang! Bang!” jetted their pistols. The live Kiowas, dodging and hanging to the necks of their ponies, parted before the counter-charge, swerved at the volley, let the trappers into their midst――and with a great savage yell of vengeance turned, to close. For the trappers’ pistols were empty, as the teamsters’ yagers had been! Now long scores would be settled; a trapper’s scalp was worthy many a dance.