Ten wagons passed thus, without a movement or sound from the men lying concealed almost within arm's reach of the unconscious guards.
Farrell never stirred, and I scarcely ventured to breathe.

Then there came another squadron of Rangers, an officer riding alone in front, the black shadow of another section of the wagon train looming over the ridge behind them.

The horsemen passed us, the officer turning in his saddle with an order to close up their ranks.

I recognized Grant's voice, and then, sharp as a blow, rang out Farrell's whistle at my very ear.
There was a leap of flame from both sides the road, lighting up that gash in the clay bank as though it was an inferno, the red and yellow glow cleaving the night asunder, with ear-splitting roar.

I was on my feet, my rifle spitting, yet hardly conscious of any act, stunned by the suddenness of the reports, confused by those black figures leaping forward through the weird glare.