"They've only three or four rifles," said Woods. There had been little
lead in the cloud of arrows.

"Here they come!" warned Simpson, and the trio ran their rifles out over
the dead mules.

Three more riderless ponies; but the Indians kept on, supposing they
had drawn the total fire of the whites. A revolver fusillade undeceived
them, and the charging column wavered and broke for cover.

Simpson patted Will on the shoulder as they reloaded. "You're a game
one, Billy!" said he.

"You bet he is," echoed Woods, coolly drawing an arrow from his
shoulder. "How is that, Lew--poisoned?"

Will waited breathless for the decision, and his relief was as great as
Woods's when Simpson, after a critical scrutiny, answered "No."

The wound was hastily dressed, and the little company gave an undivided
attention to the foe, who were circling around their quarry, hanging to
the off sides of their ponies and firing under them. With a touch of
the grim humor that plain life breeds, Will declared that the mules were
veritable pincushions, so full of arrows were they stuck.

The besieged maintained a return fire, dropping pony after pony, and
occasionally a rider. This proved expensive sport to the Indians, and
the whole party finally withdrew from range.