thought.
All this, however, was but a flash, the least part of an instant. Some mounted Indians that had been stationed up the valley darted out at the first shot, and one of them was upon me before I saw him, for I was only concerned with the Indians pouring down the little hill out of the smoke into the camp.
I was struck down by a club, or some hard heavy object, maybe the pole of a hatchet, possibly only a horse s hoof, as he plunged in the air.
When I recovered, which must have been some minutes after, an Indian was rolling me over and pulling at the red Mexican sash around my waist. He was a powerful savage, painted red, half-naked, and held a tomahawk in his hand. I clutched tight around one of his naked legs with both my arms. He tried to shake me off, but I only clutched the tighter. I looked up, and his terrible face almost froze my blood. I relaxed my hold from want of strength. I shut my eyes, expecting the tomahawk to crash through my brain and end the matter at once, but he only laughed, as much as an Indian ever allows himself to laugh, and winding the red sash around him strode down the valley.
My pistol was gone. I crept through the grass into the stream, then down the stream to where it nearly touched the forest, and climbed over and slipped into the wood.
From the timber rim I looked back, but could see nothing whatever. The band of horses was gone r the Indians had disappeared. All was still. It was truly the stillness of death.
