The horsemen in front of him were four in number, and the leader who wore a brilliant feathered headdress, seemed to be a chief.  Ned chose him for his target, but for a few moments the Lipan made his pony bound from side to side in such a manner that he could not secure a good aim.  But his chance came.  The Lipan raised his head and opened his mouth to utter a great shout of encouragement to his followers.  The shout did not pass his lips, because Ned’s bullet struck him squarely in the forehead, and he fell backward from his horse, dead before he touched the ground.

Ned heard Obed’s rifle crack with his own, but he could not turn his head to see the result.  He snatched up his pistol and fired a second shot which severely wounded a Lipan rider, and then all three parties of the Lipans, fearing the formidable hedge, turned and galloped back, leaving two of their number lifeless upon the ground.

Obed had not fired his pistol, but he stood holding it in his hand, his eyes flashing with grim triumph.  Ned was rapidly reloading his rifle.

“If we didn’t burn their noble Lipan faces then I’m mightily mistaken,” said Obed, as he too began to reload his rifle.  “A charge that is not pressed home is no charge at all.  Hark, what is that?”

There was a sudden crash of rifle shots in the forest, the long whining whoop of the Lipans and then hard upon it a deep hoarse cheer.

“White men!” exclaimed Ned.

“And Texans!” said Obed.  “Such a roar as that never came from Mexican throats.  It’s friends!  Do you hear, Ned, it’s friends!  There go the Indians!”

Across the far edge of the open went the Lipans in wild flight, and, as they pressed their mustangs for more speed, bullets urged them to efforts yet greater.  Fifteen or twenty men galloped from the trees, and Ned and Obed, breaking cover, greeted them with joyous shouts, which the men returned in kind.

“You don’t come to much,” exclaimed Ned, “but we can say to you that never were men more welcome.”

“Which I beg to repeat and emphasize,” said Obed White.

“Speak a little louder,” said the foremost of the men, leaning from his horse and couching one hand behind his ear.

Ned repeated his words in a much stronger tone, and the man nodded and smiled.  Ned looked at him with the greatest interest.  He was of middle age and medium size.  Hair and eyes were intensely black, and his complexion was like dark leather.  Dressed in Indian costume he could readily have passed for a warrior.  Yet this man had come from the far northern state of New York, and it was only the burning suns of the Texas and North Mexican plains that had turned him to his present darkness.

“Glad to meet you, my boy,” he said, leaning from his horse and holding out a powerful hand, burnt as dark as his face.  “My name’s Smith, Erastus Smith.”

Ned grasped his hand eagerly.  This was the famous “Deaf” Smith—­destined to become yet more famous—­although they generally pronounced it D-e-e-f in Texas.