wagon-master, and Will was installed as courier between the two
caravans, which traveled twenty miles apart--plenty of elbow room for
camping and foraging.

One morning, Simpson, George Woods, and Will, who were in the rear
train, set out for the forward one, mounted upon mules, and armed, as
the trainmen always were, with rifle, knife, and a brace of revolvers.
About half of the twenty miles had been told off when the trio saw a
band of Indians emerge from a clump of trees half a mile away and sweep
toward them. Flight with the mules was useless; resistance promised
hardly more success, as the Indians numbered a full half-hundred: but
surrender was death and mutilation.

"Shoot the mules, boys!" ordered Simpson, and five minutes later two men
and a boy looked grimly over a still palpitating barricade.

The defense was simple; rifles at range, revolvers for close quarters,
knives at the last. The chief, easily distinguished by his feathered
head-dress, was assigned to Will. Already his close shooting was the
pride of the frontiersmen. Simpson's coolness steadied the lad, who
realized that the situation was desperate.

The Indians came on with the rush and scream of the March wind. "Fire!"
said Simpson, and three ponies galloped riderless as the smoke curled
from three rifle barrels.

Dismayed by the fall of their chief, the redskins wheeled and rode out
of range. Will gave a sigh of relief.

"Load up again, Billy!" smiled Simpson. "They'll soon be back."