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.
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