Creative Books

If his horse, alarmed perhaps, had not thrown up his head
suddenly, and received the bullet himself the lad's career would have
ended there.
The horse made a convulsive leap, then staggered for a few seconds,
giving his rider time to spring clear, and fell among the bushes.
Dick dropped down behind him and quickly unstrapped the rifle from the
saddle, meaning to use the animal's body as a breastwork against renewed
attack.
His fear, the kind of fear that the bravest feel, had been driven away
by rage. The killing of his innocent horse, although the bullet was
intended for him, angered him as much as if he had received a wound
himself. The spirit of his ancestor, the shrewd and wary Indian fighter,
descended upon him again, and, lying upon his stomach behind the horse,
with the rifle ready he was anxious for the attack to come.
Dick was firmly convinced that he had but a single enemy. Otherwise he
would have been attacked in force earlier, and more than one shot would
have been fired. But the report of the rifle was succeeded by deep
silence.


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