Surrounded.

A plain of pure sand, glaring red-yellow under the first rays of the rising sun; towards the east and west apparently illimitable, but interrupted northward by a chain of table-topped hills, and along its southern edge by a continuous cliff, rising wall-like to the height of several hundred feet, and trending each way beyond the verge of vision.

About half-distance between this prolonged escarpment and the outlying hills six large “Conestoga” waggons, locked tongue and tail together, enclosing a lozenge-shaped or elliptical space—a corral—inside which are fifteen men and five horses.

Only ten of the men are living; the other five are dead, their bodies lying a-stretch between the wheels of the waggons. Three of the horses have succumbed to the same fate.

Outside are many dead mules; several still attached to the protruding poles, that have broken as their bodies fell crashing across them. Fragments of leather straps and cast gearing tell of others that have torn loose, and scoured off from the perilous spot.

Inside and all around are traces of a struggle—the ground scored and furrowed by the hoofs of horses, and the booted feet of men, with here and there little rivulets and pools of blood. This, fast filtering into the sand, shows freshly spilled—some of it still smoking.

All the signs tell of recent conflict. And so should they, since it is still going on, or only suspended to recommence a new scene of the strife, which promises to be yet more terrible and sanguinary than that already terminated.

A tragedy easy of explanation. There is no question about why the waggons have been stopped, or how the men, mules, and horses came to be killed. Distant about three hundred yards upon the sandy plain are other men and horses, to the number of near two hundred. Their half-naked bodies of bronze colour, fantastically marked with devices in chalk-white, charcoal-black, and vermillion red—their buckskin breech-clouts and leggings, with plumes sticking tuft-like above their crowns—all these insignia show them to be Indians.

It is a predatory band of the red pirates, who have attacked a travelling party of whites—no new spectacle on the prairies.

They have made the first onslaught, which was intended to stampede the caravan, and at once capture it. This was done before daybreak. Foiled in the attempt, they are now laying siege to it, having surrounded it on all sides at a distance just beyond range of the rifles of those besieged. Their line forms the circumference of a circle of which the waggon clump is the centre. It is not very regularly preserved, but ever changing, ever in motion, like some vast constricting serpent that has thrown its body into a grand coil around its victim, to close when ready to give the fatal squeeze.

In this case the victim appears to have no hope of escape—no alternative but to succumb.

That the men sheltered behind the waggons have not “gone under” at the first onslaught is significative of their character. Of a surety they are not common emigrants, crossing the prairies on their way to a new home. Had they been so, they could not have “corralled” their unwieldy vehicles with such promptitude; for they had started from their night camp, and the attack was made while the train was in motion—advantage being taken of their slow drag through the soft, yielding sand. And had they been but ordinary emigrants they would not have stood so stoutly on the defence, and shown such an array of dead enemies around them. For among the savages outside can be seen at least a score of lifeless forms lying prostrate upon the plain.

For the time, there is a suspension of hostilities. The red men, disappointed by the failure of their first charge, have retreated back to a safe distance. The death-dealing bullets of the whites, of which they have had fatal proof, hold them there.

But the pause is not likely to be for long, as their gestures indicate. On one side of the circle a body of them clumped together hold counsel. Others gallop around it, bearing orders and instructions that evidently relate to a changed plan of attack. With so much blood before their eyes, and the bodies of their slain comrades, it is not likely they will retire from the ground. In their shouts there is a ring of resolved vengeance, which promises a speedy renewal of the attack.

“Who do you think they are?” asks Frank Hamersley, the proprietor of the assaulted caravan. “Are they Comanches, Walt?”

“Yis, Kimanch,” answers the individual thus addressed; “an’ the wust kind o’ Kimanch. They’re a band o’ the cowardly Tenawas. I kin tell by thar bows. Don’t ye see that thar’s two bends in ’em?”

“I do.”

“Wal, that’s the sort o’ bow the Tenawas carry—same’s the Apash.”

“The Indians on this route were reported friendly. Why have they attacked us, I wonder?”

“Injuns ain’t niver friendly—not Tenawas. They’ve been riled considerably of late by the Texans on the Trinity. Besides, I reck’n I kin guess another reezun. It’s owin’ to some whites as crossed this way last year. Thar war a scrimmage atween them and the redskins, in the which some squaws got kilt—I mout say murdered. Thar war some Mexikins along wi’ the whites, an’ it war them that did it. An’ now we’ve got to pay for their cussed crooked conduk.”

“What’s best for us to do?”

“Thar’s no best, I’m afeerd. I kin see no chance ’cept to fight it out to the bitter eend. Thar’s no mercy in them yells—ne’er a morsel o’ it.”

“What do they intend doing next, think you?”

“Jest yet ’taint easy to tell. Thar’s somethin’ on foot among ’em—some darned Injun trick. Clar as I kin see, that big chief wi’ the red cross on his ribs, air him they call the Horned Lizard; an’ ef it be, thar ain’t a cunniner coon on all this contynent. He’s sharp enough to contrive some tight trap for us. The dose we’ve gin the skunks may keep ’em off for a while—not long, I reck’n. Darnation! Thar’s five o’ our fellows wiped out already. It looks ugly, an’ like enuf we’ve all got to go under.”

“Don’t you think our best way will be to make a dash for it, and try to cut through them. If we stay here they’ll starve us out. We haven’t water enough in the waggons to give us a drink apiece.”

“I know all that, an’ hev thort o’ ’t. But you forget about our hosses. Thar’s only two left alive—yours and myen. All the rest air shot or stampedoed. Thurfor, but two o’ us would stand a chance o’ gettin’ clar, an’ it slim enough.”

“You are right, Walt; I did not think of that I won’t forsake the men, even if assured of my own safety—never!”

“Nobody as knows you, Frank Hamersley, need be tolt that.”

“Boys!” cries out Hamersley, in a voice that can be heard all through the corral; “I needn’t tell you that we’re in a fix, and a bad one. There’s no help for us but to fight it out. And if we must die, let us die together.”

A response from eight voices coming from different sides—for those watching the movements of the enemy are posted round the enclosure—tells there is not a craven among them. Though only teamsters, they are truly courageous men—most of them natives of Kentucky and Tennessee.

“In any case,” continues the owner of the caravan, “we must hold our ground till night. In the darkness there may be some chance of our being able to steal past them.”

These words have scarce passed the lips of the young prairie merchant, when their effect is counteracted by an exclamation. It comes from Walt Wilder, who has been acting as guide to the party.

“Dog-goned!” he cries; “not the shadder o’ a chance. They ain’t goin’ to give us till night. I knewed the Horned Lizard ’ud be after some trick.”

“What?” inquire several voices.

“Look whar that lot’s stannin’ out yonder. Can’t ye guess what they’re at, Frank Hamersley?”

“No. I only see that they have bows in their hands.”

“An’ arrers, too. Don’t you obsarve them wroppin’ somethin’ round the heads o’ the arrers—looks like bits o’ rags? Aye, rags it air, sopped in spittles and powder. They’re agoin’ to set the waggons afire! They air, by God!”