hope was dead in her, for she saw their fate clearly now.
They had reached the ford too late. They would be shot from the bank as their horses struggled in the waters of the river.
She was almost at the water's edge and she bore to the left, remembering the words that Almayne had shouted to her. A strong arm gripped her waist, dragged her from Selu's back, swung her to the right, and flung her down. . . .
She lay bruised and half-dazed behind a great rock close to the water, and beside her Almayne and Lachlan were crouching, their rifles levelled, while beyond them O'Sullivan stood, lips tight, eyes blazing, his naked sword clenched in his hand. Down the long slope the Appalaches were charging, a torrent of yelling braves and plunging horses, rifles, tomahawks and lances waving, feathers streaming in the wind.
Almayne's rifle cracked; a moment later, Lachlan's. An Indian doubled over backward, sprawled for an instant on his horse's crupper, fell and rolled over and over in the grass. Simultaneously a piebald pony crumpled in full stride, sending his rider flying, and another pony, smashing into the fallen horse, fell also, as his rider leaped clear.
Still the others came on—an avalanche of plumed and painted warriors, riding high on their horses' backs, swinging their weapons madly, yelling like fiends from hell.
