One, two, three hundred yards they came, centering on the leafy
clump of cottonwoods, riding at tearing gallop, erect, defiant, daring
at the start, and giving full voice to their wild war cry. Then bending
forward, then crouching low, then flattening out like hunted squirrel,
for as the foremost in the dash came thundering on within good carbine
range, all on a sudden the watch dogs of the little plains fort began to
bark. Tiny jets of flame and smoke shot from the level of the
prairie, from over dingy mounds of sand, from behind the trunks of
stunted trees, from low parapet of log or leather. Then the entire grove
seemed veiling itself in a drifting film of blue, the whole charging
circle to crown itself with a dun cloud of dust that swept eastward over
the prairie, driven by the stiff, unhampered breeze. The welkin rang
with savage yell, with answering cheer, with the sputter and crackle of
rifle and revolver, the loud bellow of Springfield, and then, still
yelping, the feathered riders veered and circled, ever at magnificent
speed, each man for himself, apparently, yet all guided and controlled
by some unseen, yet acknowledged, power; and, in five minutes, save
where some hapless pony lay quivering and kicking on the turf, the low
ground close at hand was swept clean of horse or man.
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