crew to the slaughter, there was a crash
of rifles all about me, the red flare leaping into the gray mist--a
savage yell from a hundred throats, and a wild rush of naked bodies.

I saw warriors of the Iroquois fling up their arms and fall; I saw
them shrink, and shrivel, break ranks and run. Surprised, stricken,
terrified by the war-whoops of the maddened Illini, realizing only
that they were caught between enemies, their one and only thought was
escape. Two of their chiefs were down, and the white renegade,
stumbling and falling as though also hurt, dived into the underbrush.

Before they could rally, or even comprehend what had occurred, their
assailants were upon them. Leaping across the open, over rock and
sand, yelling like fiends, weapons gleaming in the dull light, the
frenzied Illini, enflamed with revenge, maddened with hate, flung
themselves straight at them. Rifles flashed in their faces, tomahawks
whirled in the air, but nothing stopped that rush. Warriors fell, but
the others stumbled over the naked bodies. I saw De Artigny, stripped
to his shirt, and that in rags from the bushes he had plunged through,
his rifle barrel gripped, a yard in front of them all. I saw La
Forest, bareheaded, and Sequitah, his Indian stoicism forgotten in mad
blood lust.

Then they struck and were lost in the fierce maelstrom of struggle,
striking, falling, red hands gripping at red throats, rifle butts
flung high, tomahawks dealing the death blow, knives gleaming as
sinewy arms drove them home. I could no longer distinguish enemy from
friend; they were interlocked, struggling like mad dogs, fighting as
devils might, a wild tangled mass of bodies, of waving hair, of
blazing eyes, of uplifted steel.

The Iroquois had rallied from their first shock; already they realized
the small number of the attackers. Those who had fled were turning
back; those on either flank were running toward the scene of fight. I
saw the white renegade burst from the press, urging these laggards
forward. Scarcely had he attained the outer edge, when De Artigny
fought his way forth also, tearing the mass asunder with sweep of
rifle. They stood face to face, glaring into each other's eyes.

The rifle in De Artigny's hand was but a twisted bar of iron; this
renegade's only weapon was a murderous knife, its point reddened with
blood. What word was said, I know not, but I saw De Artigny fling his
bar aside, and draw the knife at his belt. _Mon Dieu!_ I coul