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. The forest was absolutely still, not a breath of wind stirring.
His enemy remained invisible, but the besieged youth was confident that
he was lying quiet, awaiting another chance. Dick, still hot with anger,
would wait too.

But other enemies were far more reckless than the hidden marksman.
The swarm of gnats, flies, and mosquitoes assailed him again and he could
have cried out in pain. His only consolation lay in the fact that the
other man might be suffering just as much.

He was aware that his enemy might try a circling movement in order to
reach him on the flank or from behind, but he believed that his ear would
be keen enough to detect him if he came near. Moreover he lay in a
slight dip with the body of the horse in front of him, and it would
require an uncommon sharpshooter to reach him with a bullet. If he could
only stand those terrible mosquitoes an hour he felt that he might get