There were now men leaning on their elbows, blood dripping from their mouths.

There were cries, sounding far away, inconsequent to us still standing.

The whir of many arrows came, and we could hear them chuck into the woodwork of the wagons, into the leather of saddle and harness, and now and again into something that gave out a softer, different sound.
I was crowding a ball down my rifle with its hickory rod when I felt a shove at my arm and heard a voice at my ear.

"Git out of the way, man--how can I see how to shoot if you bob your head acrost my sights all the time ?" There stood old Mandy McGovern, her long brown rifle half raised, her finger lying sophisticatedly along the trigger guard, that she might not touch the hair trigger.

She was as cool as any man in the line, and as deadly.