The McCarthy boys, at the proper moment, gave orders to fire upon the advancing enemy.  The volley checked them, although they returned the compliment, and shot one of our party through the leg.  Frank McCarthy then sang out, “Boys, make a break for the slough yonder, and we can have the bank for a breastwork.”

We made a run for the slough, which was only a short distance off, and succeeded in safely reaching it, bringing with us the wounded man.  The bank proved to be a very effective breastwork, affording us good protection.  We had been there but a short time when Frank McCarthy, seeing that the longer we were corralled the worse it would be for us, said:—­

“Well, boys, we’ll try to make our way back to Fort Kearny by wading in the river and keeping the bank for a breastwork.”

We all agreed that this was the best plan, and we accordingly proceeded down the river several miles in this way, managing to keep the Indians at a safe distance with our guns, until the slough made a junction with the main Platte River.  From there down, we found the river at times quite deep; and in order to carry the wounded man along with us, we constructed a raft of poles for his accommodation, and in this way he was transported.

Occasionally the water would be too deep for us to wade, and we were obliged to put our weapons on the raft and swim.  The Indians followed us pretty close, and were continually watching for an opportunity to get a good range and give us a raking fire.  Covering ourselves by keeping well under the bank, we pushed ahead as rapidly as possible, and made pretty good progress, the night finding us still on the way and our enemies yet on our track.

I, being the youngest and smallest of the party, became somewhat tired, and without noticing it I had fallen behind the others for some little distance.  It was about ten o’clock and we were keeping very quiet and hugging close to the bank, when I happened to look up to the moonlit sky and saw the plumed head of an Indian peeping over the bank.  Instead of hurrying ahead and alarming the men in a quiet way, I instantly aimed my gun at his head and fired.  The report rang out sharp and loud on the night air, and was immediately followed by an Indian whoop; and the next moment about six feet of dead Indian came tumbling into the river.  I was not only overcome with astonishment, but was badly scared, as I could hardly realize what I had done.  I expected to see the whole force of Indians come down upon us.  While I was standing thus bewildered, the men who had heard the shot and the war-whoop and had seen the Indian take a tumble, came rushing back.

“Who fired that shot?” cried Frank McCarthy.

“I did,” replied I, rather proudly, as my confidence returned and I saw the men coming up.

“Yes, and little Billy has killed an Indian stone-dead—­too dead to skin,” said one of the men, who had approached nearer than the rest, and had almost stumbled over the corpse.  From that time forward I became a hero and an Indian killer.  This was, of course, the first Indian I had ever shot, and as I was then not more than eleven years of age, my exploit created quite a sensation.