But his chance came. The Lipan raised his head and opened his mouth to
utter a great shout of encouragement to his followers. The shout did not
pass his lips, because Ned's bullet struck him squarely in the forehead,
and he fell backward from his horse, dead before he touched the ground.
Ned heard Obed's rifle crack with his own, but he could not turn his
head to see the result. He snatched up his pistol and fired a second
shot which severely wounded a Lipan rider, and then all three parties of
the Lipans, fearing the formidable hedge, turned and galloped back,
leaving two of their number lifeless upon the ground.
Obed had not fired his pistol, but he stood holding it in his hand, his
eyes flashing with grim triumph. Ned was rapidly reloading his rifle.
"If we didn't burn their noble Lipan faces then I'm mightily mistaken,"
said Obed, as he too began to reload his rifle. "A charge that is not
pressed home is no charge at all. Hark, what is that?"
There was a sudden crash of rifle shots in the forest, the long whining
whoop of the Lipans and then hard upon it a deep hoarse cheer.
"White men!" exclaimed Ned.
"And Texans!" said Obed. "Such a roar as that never came from Mexican
throats. It's friends! Do you hear, Ned, it's friends! There go the
Indians!"
Across the far edge of the open went the Lipans in wild flight, and, as
they pressed their mustangs for more speed, bullets urged them to
efforts yet greater.
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