By this time our poor dead mules, who had given their lives for ours,
were stuck full of arrows. Woods had been winged in the shoulder.
Simpson, carefully examining the wound, expressed his belief that the
arrow which inflicted it had not been poisoned.

[Illustration: A SHOWER OF ARROWS RAINED ON OUR DEAD MULES FROM THE
CLOSING CIRCLE OF RED-MEN]

But we had little time to worry about that or anything else. Our
enemies were still circling, just out of range. Here and there when
they grew incautious we dropped a man or a pony. But we were still
heavily outnumbered. They knew it and we knew it. Unless help came it
was only a question of time till it was all over.

Daylight came and they still held off. Eagerly we looked to the
westward, but no wagon-train appeared. We began to fear that something
had happened to our friends, when, suddenly one of the Indians jumped
up, and with every evidence of excitement signaled to the others. In an
instant they were all mounted.

"They hear the crack of the bull-whip," said Woods.

He was right. Without another glance in our direction the Sioux
galloped away toward the foot-hills, and as they disappeared we heard
the welcome snap of the long bull-whip, and saw the first of our wagons
coming up the trail. In that day, however, the plainsman was delivered
out of one peril only to be plunged into another. His days seldom
dragged for want of excitement.

When we got to Leavenworth, Simpson sent three of us ahead with the