There was a third crack, and a man fell to the bottom of the hollow,
where he lay still. The bullet had gone through his head. Ned saw a
wreath of smoke rising from a tiny hillock, a hundred yards away, and
then he saw lifted for only a moment a coppery face with high cheek
bones and coarse black hair. An Indian! No one could ever mistake that
face for a white man's. Many more shots were fired and he caught
glimpses of other faces, Indian in type like the first.
Every hillock or other inequality of the earth seemed to spout bullets,
which were now striking among the Texans, cooped up in the hollow,
killing and wounding. But the circle of Mexican horsemen did not stir.
"What are they?" called Fannin, who was lying upon a pallet, suffering
greatly from his wound.
"Indians," replied Ned.
"Indians!" exclaimed Fannin in surprise. "I did not know that there were
any in this part of the country."
"Nor did I," replied Ned, "but they are surely here, Colonel, and if I
may make a suggestion, suppose we pick sharp-shooters to meet them."
"It is the only thing to do," said Fannin, and immediately the best men
with the rifle were placed along the edge of the hollow. It was full
time, as the fire of the red sharpshooters was creeping closer, and was
doing much harm.
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