well-nigh waist-deep to me. Gradually I fell behind, and when night
came I was dragging one weary step after another--dog-tired but still
clinging to my old Mississippi Yaeger rifle, a short muzzle-loader
which carried a ball and two buckshot.

Darkness came, and I still toiled along. The men ahead were almost out
of hearing. Presently the moon rose, dead ahead of me. And painted
boldly across its face was the black figure of an Indian. There could
be no mistaking him for a white man. He wore the war-bonnet of the
Sioux, and at his shoulder was a rifle, pointed at someone in the
bottom below him. I knew well enough that in another second he would
drop one of my friends. So I raised my Yaeger and fired. I saw the
figure collapse, and heard it come tumbling thirty feet down the bank,
landing with a splash in the water.

McCarthy and the rest of the party, hearing the shot, came back in a
hurry.

"What is it?" asked McCarthy, when he came up to me.

"I don't know," I said. "Whatever it is, it is down there in the
water."

McCarthy ran over to the brave. "Hi!" he cried. "Little Billy's killed
an Indian all by himself!"

Not caring to meet any of this gentleman's friends we pushed on still
faster toward Fort Kearney, which we reached about daylight. We were
given food and sent to bed, while the soldiers set out to look for our
slain comrades and to try to recover our cattle.