They were Campeachy Indians, whom the Mexicans had
brought with them from their far country and, splendid stalkers and
skirmishers, they were now proving their worth. Better marksmen than the
Mexicans, naked to the waist, their dark faces inflamed with the rage to
kill, they wormed themselves forward like snakes, flattened against the
ground, taking advantage of every hillock or ridge, and finding many a
victim in the hollow. Far back, the Mexican officers sitting on their
horses watched their work with delighted approval.
Ned was not a sharpshooter like the Panther or Davy Crockett, but he was
a sharpshooter nevertheless, and, driven by the sternest of all needs,
he was growing better all the time. He saw another black head raised for
a moment above a hillock, and a muzzle thrust forward, but he fired
first. The head dropped back, but the rifle fell from the arms and lay
across the hillock. Ned knew that his bullet had sped true, and he felt
a savage joy.
The other sharpshooters around him were also finding targets. The Indian
bullets still crashed into the crowded ranks in the hollow, but the
white marksmen picked off one after another in the grass. The moment a
red face showed itself a bullet that rarely missed was sent toward it.
Pages:
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405