momentary intervals as the magazines were refilled and again refilled.

The Indians, taken wholly aback by this unexpected reception of point-blank fire, swerved in confusion. Many of them tumbled from their rearing, plunging, staggering ponies. Many of the ponies fell; many raced back riderless. There was a wild screech as the crowd stopped in their broken charge, unwilling to face the deadly barrier of bullets.

"Cease fire!" cried Kiddie, lowering his rifle. "Cease fire, Nick. We've checked 'em, sure. Don't you see? Order your men ter quit shootin'."

"Not yet," objected Nick, still using his gun. "We ain't finished yet, no more'n they. See the rooster in the fur cap—him ridin' the piebald mustang? He ain't done shootin' yet. He's figurin' ter pick you off. Bin at it all the time. Snakes! Why, it's Broken Feather hisself! Stand back! Leave him ter me, sir. Git back an' see ter them hosses—and the boy."

As he spoke Nick again pressed his trigger. Kiddie saw the mustang rear on its hind legs, pawing the air as it pivoted round, and then fall over with a heavy thud. But its rider leapt clear, flung himself flat behind his fallen pony, and continued to shoot.