CHAPTER EIGHT.
KNIFE, PISTOL, AND HATCHET.
The brave words had scarce passed from Walt Wilder's lips when the waggons became enveloped in a cloud of smoke.

From all sides it rolled into the corral till those inside could no longer see one another.
Still through the obscurity rang their cries of mutual encouragement, repeating the determination so tersely expressed.
They knew they had no water by which to extinguish the fast-threatening flames; yet in that moment of emergency they thought of an expedient.
There were shovels in the waggons; and laying hold of these, they commenced flinging sand over the places that had caught fire, with the intent to smother the incipient blaze.

Left alone, and with time, they might have succeeded.

But they were not left alone, for the savages, seeing the advantage they had gained, were now fast closing for a final charge upon the corral, and the implements of industry had to be abandoned.
These were thrown despairingly aside; and the besieged, once more grasping their rifles, sprang back into the waggons--each with eager eye searching for an assailant.

Though themselves half blinded by the smoke, they could still see the enemy outside; for the Indians, grown confident by the _coup_ they had made, were now riding recklessly near.
Quick came the reports of rifles--faster and more frequent than ever; fast as ten men, all practised marksmen, could load and fire.