as
good, and the surprised Iroquois turned to face this new foe. But they
and the Tories were a strong band, and they retreated only a little.
Then they stood firm, and the forest battle began. The Indians numbered
not less than thirty, and both Braxton Wyatt and Coleman were with them,
but the value of skill was here shown by the smaller party, the one
that attacked. The frontiersmen, trained to every trick and wile of
the forest, and marksmen such as the Indians were never able to become,
continually pressed in and drove the Iroquois from tree to tree. Once or
twice the warriors started a rush, but they were quickly driven back by
sharpshooting such as they had never faced before. They soon realized
that this was no band of border farmers, armed hastily for an emergency,
but a foe who knew everything that they knew, and more.

Braxton Wyatt and his friend Coleman fought with the Iroquois, and Wyatt
in particular was hot with rage. He suspected that the five who had
defeated him so often were among these marksmen, and there might be a
chance now to destroy them all. He crept to the side of the fierce old
Seneca chief, Hiokatoo, and suggested that a part of their band slip
around and enfold the enemy.

Old Hiokatoo, in the thick of battle now, presented his most terrifying
aspect. He was naked save the waist cloth, his great body was covered
with scars, and, as he bent a little forward, he held cocked and ready
in his hands a fine rifle that had been presented to him by his good
friend, the king. The Senecas, it may be repeated, had suffered terribly
at the Battle of the Oriskany in the preceding year, and throughout
these years of border were the most cruel of all the Iroquois. In this
respect Hiokatoo led all the Senecas, and now Braxton Wyatt used as he
was to savage scenes, was compelled to admit to himself that this was
the most terrifying human being whom he had ever beheld. He was old, but
age in him seemed merely to add to his strength and ferocity. The path
of a deep cut, healed long since, but which the paint even did not hide,
lay across his forehead. Others almost as deep adorned his right cheek,
his chin, and his neck. He was crouched much like a panther, with his
rifle in his hands and the ready tomahawk at his belt. But it was the
extraordinary expression of his eyes that made Braxton Wyatt shudder. He
read there no mercy for anything, not even for himself, Braxton Wyatt,
if he should stand in the way, a