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Updated: May 29, 2025
Gradually I fell behind, and when night came I was dragging one weary step after another dog-tired but still clinging to my old Mississippi Yaeger rifle, a short muzzle-loader which carried a ball and two buckshot. Darkness came, and I still toiled along. The men ahead were almost out of hearing. Presently the moon rose, dead ahead of me.
And painted boldly across its face was the black figure of an Indian. There could be no mistaking him for a white man. He wore the war-bonnet of the Sioux, and at his shoulder was a rifle, pointed at someone in the bottom below him. I knew well enough that in another second he would drop one of my friends. So I raised my Yaeger and fired.
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