Aborigines
Either path could lead to your doom, and you had no time to be picky. You stick with the smaller crowd and head left, hoping the Apaches split up and send their main force after the larger group. No such luck. Behind you there is at least fifty warriors.
The canyon narrowed and eventually came to a dead end. It was just the thing you dreaded most. You cast a quick glance at the area that you will die in before dismounting your horse. You scarcely have time to reload the spent rounds in your revolver and snatch the rifle from your saddle before they are upon you. The dozen or so men around you begin squirting lead into the oncoming horde without discretion, using their terrified horses as shelter from the hail of bullets and arrows that fell upon them. You join them, levering your rifle and firing as fast as you can. The approaching horses shied and stopped at the rich smell of blood and death and the Indians dismounted, agreeing to a brief firefight before overpowering you. Some sat upon their horses, others stood on the ground. The canyon was thick with dark smoke from the guns. Bullets hit flesh with dull thuds and ricocheted of the stone around them, sending jagged fragments of rock and dust flying down into both groups.
The hammer on your rifle dropped with a dry click an you set it down and draw your sidearm. Blood was everywhere. It pooled in the dirt beneath the freshly dead, it spattered where the wounded passed by, and for a man who had his carotid artery split open with an arrow it sprayed out in thick, dark ropes. The Indians fared slightly better. For their strength in numbers, they were taking heavy losses from the cornered and desperate soldiers.
Eventually they decided it was time to end it. With a shrill yell they surged forward. There were only three soldiers left besides you and there was no time to reload. You managed to feed two bullets into your gun before you had to shut the loading gate and cock it. An Apache ran forward, ready to smash your skull in with a rifle butt, and you shot him, not killing him outright but hurting him bad enough for him to stop and sit down. Another ran up with a long knife and you placed the barrel against his chest and shot him point blank, singeing his flesh with the muzzle flash and sending small droplets of blood into your face. You stoop to snatch his knife with which you were planning on slashing your own throat but you were stopped by a primitive club crashing down on the back of your head.
The canyon narrowed and eventually came to a dead end. It was just the thing you dreaded most. You cast a quick glance at the area that you will die in before dismounting your horse. You scarcely have time to reload the spent rounds in your revolver and snatch the rifle from your saddle before they are upon you. The dozen or so men around you begin squirting lead into the oncoming horde without discretion, using their terrified horses as shelter from the hail of bullets and arrows that fell upon them. You join them, levering your rifle and firing as fast as you can. The approaching horses shied and stopped at the rich smell of blood and death and the Indians dismounted, agreeing to a brief firefight before overpowering you. Some sat upon their horses, others stood on the ground. The canyon was thick with dark smoke from the guns. Bullets hit flesh with dull thuds and ricocheted of the stone around them, sending jagged fragments of rock and dust flying down into both groups.
The hammer on your rifle dropped with a dry click an you set it down and draw your sidearm. Blood was everywhere. It pooled in the dirt beneath the freshly dead, it spattered where the wounded passed by, and for a man who had his carotid artery split open with an arrow it sprayed out in thick, dark ropes. The Indians fared slightly better. For their strength in numbers, they were taking heavy losses from the cornered and desperate soldiers.
Eventually they decided it was time to end it. With a shrill yell they surged forward. There were only three soldiers left besides you and there was no time to reload. You managed to feed two bullets into your gun before you had to shut the loading gate and cock it. An Apache ran forward, ready to smash your skull in with a rifle butt, and you shot him, not killing him outright but hurting him bad enough for him to stop and sit down. Another ran up with a long knife and you placed the barrel against his chest and shot him point blank, singeing his flesh with the muzzle flash and sending small droplets of blood into your face. You stoop to snatch his knife with which you were planning on slashing your own throat but you were stopped by a primitive club crashing down on the back of your head.