They were going at full speed,
working in closer. A bullet, striking the rim of the car and
showering splinters in Neale's face, attested to the fact that the
Sioux were still to be feared, even from a moving fort. Neale
dropped back and, reloading his rifle, found a hole from which to
shoot. He emptied his magazine before he realized it. But what with
his trembling hands, the jerking of the train, and the swift motion
of the Indians, he did not do any harm to the foe.
Suddenly, with a jolt, the train halted.
"Blocked ag'in, b'gorra," said Casey, calmly. "Me pipe's out. Sandy,
gimme a motch."
The engine whistled two shrill blasts.
"What's that for?" asked Neale, quickly.
"Them's for the men in the foist car to pile over the engine an'
remove obstruchtions from the track," replied Casey.
Neale dared to risk a peep over the top of the car. The Sioux were
circling closer to the front of the train. All along a half-dozen
cars ahead of Neale puffs of smoke and jets of flame shot out. Heavy
volleys were being fired. The attack of the savages seemed to be
concentrating forward, evidently to derail the engine or kill the
engineer.
Casey pulled Neale down. "Risky fer yez," he said. "Use a port-hole
an' foight."
"My shells are gone," replied Neale.
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