of two feet. The face disappeared. The black muzzle of the smooth-bore veered sharply upward and rocked to a standstill. Then, Ick Far was shooting again, and Connie was firing his service revolver at heads on top of the barricade. There were painted bodies now, among the others inside the barrier.
An aged squaw, with a face withered and drawn, like a sun-dried moccasin, pulled the smooth-bore, muzzle first, through the loophole. She raised the butt to her shoulder, jerked the barrel upward toward a painted figure that straddled the barricade, and pulled the trigger. There was a report like the roar of a cannon. The recoil flattened the squaw among the rocks. The painted figure rocked to and fro, sagged side wise, and slithered slowly toward the ground. The foot caught at the ankle in a crotch, and the Indian hung head downward, with grotesquely twitching limbs and wide-staring eyes.
Upon the ground the old squaw laughed—a horrid, cackling laugh—and Connie shuddered.
His revolver was empty and a wounded Brushwood reloaded it for him. But he could see no more faces above the barricade. He heard loud
