As I finished reloading, I saw her hard, gray face drop as she crooked her elbow and settled to the sights--saw her swing as though she were following a running deer; and then at the crack of her piece I saw a Sioux drop out of his high-peaked saddle.

Mandy turned to the rear.
"Git in here, git in here, son!" I heard her cry.

And to my wonder now I saw the long, lean figure of Andrew Jackson McGovern come forward, a carbine clutched in his hand, while from his mouth came some sort of eerie screech of incipient courage, which seemed to give wondrous comfort to his fierce dam.

At about this moment one of the Sioux, mortally wounded by our fire, turned his horse and ran straight toward us hard as he could go.

He knew that he must die, and this was his way--ah, those red men knew how to die.