CHAPTER SEVEN.
FIERY MESSENGERS.
The teamsters, each of whom is watching the post assigned to him, despite the danger, already extreme, see fresh cause of alarm in Wilder's words.

Some slight hope had hitherto upheld them.

Under the protection of the waggons they might sustain a siege, so long as their ammunition lasts; and before it gave out some chance, though they cannot think what, might turn up in their favour.

It was a mere reflection founded on probabilities still unscrutinised--the last tenacious struggle before hope gives way to utter and palpable despair.
Hamersley's words had for an instant cheered them; for the thought of the Indians setting fire to the waggons had not occurred to any of the party.

It was a thing unknown to their experience; and, at such a distance, might be supposed impossible.
But, as they now look around them, and note the canvas tilts, and light timbers, dry as chips from long exposure to the hot prairie sun; the piles of dry goods--woollen blankets, cotton, and silk stuffs--intended for the stores of Chihuahua, some of which they have hastily pulled from their places to form protecting barricades--when they see all this, and then the preparations the Indians are engaged in making, no wonder that they feel dismay on Walt Wilder shouting out, "They're agoin' to set the waggons afire!" The announcement, although carrying alarm, conveys no counsel.