yelling!

Now the British swarm upon the meagre lines of the Rangers and the
latter are forced back, literally by weight of numbers. And, as they
retreat, a British detachment is sent around to attack them on the
flank. They press forward, expecting to crumple up Morgan's men like
tall grain in the hand of the reaper! They will teach those rude
fellows a lesson, that Americans can't stand before the trained
soldiers of Europe.

"Here come the New Hampshire boys!"

Stalwart men they were, those men from New Hampshire, led by Cilley
and Scammel. Their training in military matters had been meagre,
indeed, but they fight, and Morgan's men rally for another onslaught,
and again another, for they will not stop until darkness stops them.
Hurrah! now they have the cannon, but the retreating British wisely
carry the linstocks with them so the cannon may not be turned against
them, and later they are able to recapture them.

Backward and forward, yells of triumph on one side and again on the
other. Rodney and Zeb keep together. There is blood on the side of
young Allison's face, scratched by a bullet, as he would have said,
had he known it. "On and at 'em." Down goes Zeb, his companions in
their onward rush leaping aside or over his prostrate body. Rodney saw
him fall, but what could he do? If they ever came back he would find
him. He doesn't forget, and, when they come staggering back through
the smoke, with the British bayonets behind them, Zeb is carried to
the rear.

"You're lucky it's no worse, Zeb."

"That's what the feller said as lost both legs. If I can keep clear o'
the scalpin' knife I'll fight agin, sure's yer born!"

"If I'm alive to do it I'll see that you are taken off the field
to-night."

"I know ye will if the redcoats don't take the field away from ye. If
they do, the red devils will get more scalps than they can carry."

"They haven't got it yet. Here we go again," and, saying this, he
joined the mass of running men returning to the charge.

There was the same din, the same clouds of acrid powder smoke, which
now is lifted by a breeze, showing the solid ranks awaiting them. As
Rodney fires he is conscious that he has shot an Indian, an Indian
with blue eyes! What was an Indian doing in those serried ranks, why
wasn't he skulking on the outskirts as Indians should? The enemy
yield, and are driven back on to a rise of land in their rear, where
they make a stand and again hurl back the riflemen.