From the look of the posts, it was not new--four or
five years old, perhaps; not six years, certainly, for Applehead had ridden
this way six years before and there had been not so much as a post-hole to
herald the harnessing of the mesa.
Here, then, was the explanation of the fanlike spreading out of the line of
Indians. They knew that the white men would be trapped by the fence, and they
were cutting off the retreat--and keeping out of the hottest danger-zone of
the white men's guns. Even while the four were grasping the full significance
of the trap that they had ridden into unaware, the Indians topped the ridge
behind them, yip-yip-yipping gleefully their coyotelike yells of triumph. The
sound so stirred the slow wrath of Lite Avery that, without waiting for the
word from Applehead he twisted half around in his saddle, glanced at the
nearest Indian along his rifle-sights, bent his forefinger with swift
deliberation upon the trigger, and emptied the saddle of one yelling renegade,
who made haste to crawl behind a clump of rabbit weed.
"They howl like a mess uh coyotes," Lite observed in justification of the
shot, "and I'm getting sick of hearing 'em.
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