The next cabin, two miles northeast, was on fire and six men, three on horseback and three on a farm-wagon, were coming toward them. The four fugitives halted. “What are they!” Barker asked.
“They are Indians,” Tatanka decided at once. “We must make a run for the clump of poplars north of us.”
In the center of the round clump of poplars and thick brush, they tied their horses.
“They can’t see them here,” Tatanka stated. “Now, we must lie down near the edge of the brush, but so that they cannot see us, and don’t waste your powder. We may have to stay here for a long time.”
The Indians had all turned off the road and were approaching the thicket.
“Give them a shot, Bill,” said Barker. “They are only a quarter of a mile away. It’s going to be a fight for our lives.”
Two of the Indians returned Bill’s fire, but their balls or shot fell short.
“I think they have nothing but old trader guns. In that case, we may be able to beat them off,” remarked Barker.
The Indians took the team out of range. Then, three of them on horseback, and three on foot, they surrounded the grove.
One of the Indians on foot waved his blanket and shouted:
“Come out, you white men, and fight. You are squaws, you are rabbits.”
The horsemen slowly rode around the copse, while it became evident that the other three were trying to crawl up through the grass to a small clump of hazel-brush.
“Keep cool, boys,” the trapper admonished. “Don’t waste powder; hit your mark. Anybody can hit the prairie.”
“What do they want of us?” asked Tim, who had tied his coon to a tree. “We have nothing.”
“My lad,” laughed the trapper, “we have good horses and guns and four extra-fine scalps, and they want to play great heroes in camp to-night.”
Two hours passed without a shot being fired. The sun had grown hot, the heat-cats began to run up the south-facing hill, and Bill and Tim found this tedious waiting and watching the hardest kind of work they had ever done. Barker and Tatanka did not seem to mind it. They kept their eyes on the enemy but chatted and joked quietly in the most unconcerned manner, as if being besieged by Indians were a most ordinary thing to them.
“I don’t think they are a bit afraid,” said Bill.
“I’m not afraid,” Tim answered, “as long as the Indians don’t come into our bush. But I’m hungry and awfully thirsty.”