to fight had not yet come—that not yet must she turn and die beside her lover.
Suddenly she heard, or thought that she heard, the faint sound of a shot, followed instantly by another. Again she looked back; and behind her she saw the pursuers dashing outward from the belt of trees—a swift-flowing stream of plunging horses and plumed and painted Indians half-hidden in swirls of dust.
Lachlan, too, had heard the shots and was looking back. Even as he watched, he saw an Indian pitch from his pony and plunge headlong to the ground, while another drew slowly to a halt, sat swaying a moment on his horse's back, then fell sideways heavily.
Lachlan laughed exultantly. Little Mink and Striking Hawk, in ambush in that belt of trees, had struck a hard blow at their enemies before beginning their flight through the woods.
But that blow checked the pursuit not an instant. Three riders turned back to help the unmounted Indians in the rear search the belt of timber whence the shots had come. The others, at least fifty in number, dashed on without pause, bending low on their ponies' backs, whooping, yelling, flourishing their rifles, their bows, and their long lances of hickory or cane pointed with bone or flint.
Through the dust swirls behind her Jolie caught glimpses of them now and then. A warrior on a white horse led them. Even at that distance she could see his headdress of pink flamingo feathers streaming in
