stood when the forest battle began, and the red men who
had not been able to advance would not retreat.

Henry's heart sank a little at the signs that night was coming; it would
be harder in the darkness to keep their forces in touch, and the
superior numbers of the Shawnees would swarm all about them. It seemed
to him that it would be best to withdraw a little to more open ground;
but he waited a while, because he did not wish any of their movements to
have the color of retreat. Moreover, the activity of the Shawnees rose
just then to a higher pitch.

Figures were now invisible in the chill, wet dusk, fifty or sixty yards
away, and the two lines came closer. The keenest eye could see nothing
save flitting forms like phantoms, but the riflemen, trained to
quickness, fired at them and more than once sent a fatal bullet. There
were two lines of fire facing each other in the dark wood. The flashes
showed red or yellow in the twilight or the falling rain, and the Indian
yell of triumph whenever it arose, echoed, weird and terrible, through
the dripping forest.

Henry stole to the side of his father.

"We must fall back," he said, "or in the darkness or the night, they
will be sure to surround us and crush us."

Ross was an able second to this advice, and reluctantly Mr. Ware passed
along the word to retreat. "Be sure to bring off all the wounded," was
the order. "The dead, alas! must be abandoned to nameless indignities!"

The little white army left thirty dead in the dripping forest, and, as
many more carried wounds, the most of which were curable, but it was as
full of fight as ever. It merely drew back to protect itself against
being flanked in the forest, and the faces of the borderers, sullen and
determined, were still turned to the enemy.

Yet the line of fire was visibly retreating, and, when the Shawnee
forces saw it, a triumphant yell was poured from hundreds of throats.
They rushed forward, only to be driven back again by the hail of
bullets, and Ross said to Mr. Ware: "I guess we burned their faces
then."

"Look to the wounded! look to the wounded!" repeated Mr. Ware. "See that
no man too weak is left to help himself."

They had gone half a mile when Henry glanced around for Paul. His eyes,
trained to the darkness, ran over the dim forms about him. Many were
limping and others already had arms in slings made from their hunting
shirts, but Henry nowhere saw the figure of his old comrade. A fever of
fear