The bow and arrow is no match for the rifle behind barricades; but when the Sioux got behind us they saw that our barricade was open in the rear, and at this they whooped and rode in closer.  At a hundred yards their arrows fell extraordinarily close to the mark, and time and again they spiked our mules and horses with these hissing shafts that quivered where they struck.  They came near breaking our rear in this way, for our men fell into confusion, the horses and mules plunging and trying to break away.  There were now men leaning on their elbows, blood dripping from their mouths.  There were cries, sounding far away, inconsequent to us still standing.  The whir of many arrows came, and we could hear them chuck into the woodwork of the wagons, into the leather of saddle and harness, and now and again into something that gave out a softer, different sound.

I was crowding a ball down my rifle with its hickory rod when I felt a shove at my arm and heard a voice at my ear.  “Git out of the way, man—­how can I see how to shoot if you bob your head acrost my sights all the time?”

There stood old Mandy McGovern, her long brown rifle half raised, her finger lying sophisticatedly along the trigger guard, that she might not touch the hair trigger.  She was as cool as any man in the line, and as deadly.  As I finished reloading, I saw her hard, gray face drop as she crooked her elbow and settled to the sights—­saw her swing as though she were following a running deer; and then at the crack of her piece I saw a Sioux drop out of his high-peaked saddle.  Mandy turned to the rear.

“Git in here, git in here, son!” I heard her cry.  And to my wonder now I saw the long, lean figure of Andrew Jackson McGovern come forward, a carbine clutched in his hand, while from his mouth came some sort of eerie screech of incipient courage, which seemed to give wondrous comfort to his fierce dam.  At about this moment one of the Sioux, mortally wounded by our fire, turned his horse and ran straight toward us hard as he could go.  He knew that he must die, and this was his way—­ah, those red men knew how to die.  He got within forty yards, reeling and swaying, but still trying to fit an arrow to the string, and as none of us would fire on him now, seeing that he was dying, for a moment it looked as though he would ride directly into us, and perhaps do some harm.  Then I heard the boom of the boy’s carbine, and almost at the instant, whether by accident or not I could not tell, I saw the red man drop out of the forks of his saddle and roll on the ground with his arms spread out.

Perhaps never was metamorphosis more complete than that which now took place.  Shaking off detaining hands, Andrew Jackson sprang from our line, ran up to the fallen foe and in a frenzy of rage began to belabor and kick his body, winding up by catching him by the hair and actually dragging him some paces toward our firing line!  An expression of absolute beatitude spread over the countenance of Mandy McGovern.  She called out as though he were a young dog at his first fight.  “Whoopee!  Git to him, boy, git to him!  Take him, boy!  Whoopee!”