Captain Shirril and his nephew placed their beside each other, with a space of only a few feet intervening. Then, on the ground, they rested their Winchesters across the saddles, facing in opposite directions, and were ready for the assault of the red men, who were circling back and and gradually drawing nearer to them.  
“Keep cool,” said the captain, “and, when you fire, don’t throw away a shot.”
 
They were a mile from camp, and, as soon as the shooting began, it ought to attract the notice of the rest, who were sure to hurry to the spot. There was reason to believe the Indians could be held off for a long time, and, brave as they were, it was not to be expected that they would maintain their ground before such a charge as the cowboys would make, and had made a short time before.
The were armed with excellent rifles, and belonged to a tribe that is unsurpassable in horsemanship. Several had blankets on their mustangs, but most were without even that protection, being bareback, while few anything in the nature of a . The well-trained steeds, as we have shown, were managed by word and touch, and often seemed to divine the wishes of their riders, without word or movement on their part.
 
But, daring as were the latter, they knew the involved in two well-armed white men at bay. They continued their rapid at a safe distance, some of them describing a complete circle around the couple, who were quietly awaiting the chances for effective work.
 
Before long the assailants began operations. Hardly one retained an upright position on his steed for more than a few seconds at a time. They flung themselves forward, as if in wantonness, their painted faces appearing below their horses’ necks, with their long black hair streaming away, as if it were a part of the mane of their steeds. Then they extended themselves seemingly along the of their animals, as if for in the sun. While the steeds sped back and forth, the riders lolled here and there on their backs, as though it was impossible for them to lose their balance. Trying as were the circumstances, Captain Shirril could not help admiring the exhibition, which could not have been excelled.
 
But he quickly proved that he meant business of the most serious kind. He his attention on one of the half-naked , who was not only nearer than any of his companions, but kept edging closer. For a time, he maintained himself on the further side of his mustang, seeming to hold himself in place by the toe of one of his moccasins thrust over the spine at the haunches, with hardly less significant help from a hand at the base of the neck.
 
When the horse wheeled to return over his own trail, as he frequently did, the matchless 267rider, with a grace that was inimitable, swung himself over in a corresponding position on the other side, so as to preserve the body of his steed as a shield.
 
Without warning, he discharged his rifle from beneath the neck of the animal, and the of his aim was proven by the whiz of the bullet near the head of Captain Shirril.
 
But the latter was not disturbed. He was his time, and knew the opportunity was near.
 
Suddenly the mustang wheeled again. At the moment of doing so, he was closer to the than at any period before. The rider rose to view for a moment, like a leaper going over a fence sideways. Then as he on the other side of the steed, he continued until he struck the ground, where he rolled over a single time and never stirred again.
 
At the critical instant, Captain Shirril had fired. An ear-splitting followed, and that particular Comanche was eliminated from the problem that confronted him.
 
The riderless horse flung up his head, with a whinny of affright, and, looking hither and , as if unable to understand the meaning of the occurrence, dashed off to join his companions, further away on the prairie.
 
The thin of smoke had not lifted from before the captain’s face, when his nephew let fly at one of the warriors, who was extended along the back of his animal, as if a shot. Avon missed, and the Indian, with astonishing quickness, brought his own gun to a level and fired in return. The ball nipped the brim of his sombrero, passing so close that for a second the youth believed he was hit.
 
The situation was growing serious, and, since this particular Comanche was so , Avon that the occasion was a good one for the use of a repeating weapon. Without pausing to take special aim, he fired three times in rapid succession at his .
 
Though the latter escaped for the moment, his steed was less fortunate. He was hit hard by the first shot, while the last brought him to earth with a bullet through his brain.
 
His rider was too nimble to be caught by the fall, but, leaping clear, ran swiftly across the plain in the effort to get beyond reach of the rifle, which seemed to be raining bullets all around him. His courage had given place to panic, and as he ran he bounded from side to side and up and down with the of a Digger Indian when seeking to baffle the aim of an enemy.
 
Avon continued his fusillade, and by a piece of pure accident winged the . He did not fall, but the height of his leap and the of his outcry, instantly succeeded by a pronounced limp in his gait, left no doubt that he had gotten in the path of the hurtling messenger.
 
“How are you making out, Baby?” asked Captain Shirril, turning his head and coolly his relative.
 
“Only fairly,” replied Avon, replenishing the magazine of his gun and keeping his gaze on the plain in front.
 
“It is well enough to d............