hey were, prodding at him with their lances. He had more than he
could do to ward off the darting points. The heads were of thin
hoop-iron, and the shafts were of flimsy cane, so that whenever the
weapons penetrated to a bone they bent; but he was being slashed to
ribbons.

One of the Indians grew tired of such slow killing, and stepping back a
pace threw his tomahawk. That was more quickly done, and resulted, as
Ranger Higgins afterward said, "in a close shave!" The whirling blade
sliced off his ear, and part of his cheek clear beyond the point of his
jaw.

Down went Tom Higgins. The other Indian jumped him, to prod again.
Doubled on his back, in a ball, Tom fought with hands and feet, like a
'coon indeed. He got a grip on the lance; he hung on, the Indian
tugged, and dragged him to his feet. Tom let go, so that the Indian
staggered back; picked up his musket, smashed the Indian's head--and
broke the gun at the grasp between stock and barrel! Was there ever
such luck!

The third Indian rushed, with a knife. He was only one, but Tom was
weak from loss of blood, and other Indians might arrive at any moment.
Ranger Higgins parried with his rifle-barrel, found it too heavy, drew
his own knife, and gallantly closed. They locked and swayed and panted
and stabbed.

The Indian proved much the stronger, but he had no liking for this
knife work. He hurled Tom sprawling, and hastened to a rifle. After
all, a bullet was the surest weapon against this kind of a white man.

Up rose Ranger Higgins, once more--gory but not defeated. He was
chopped and gashed from head to foot, had three balls in his thighs and
one in another part of his body, and a crippled lower leg. Now he,
too, sought for a gun, and hoped that he might load first.

All this amazing lop-sided duel had occupied but little time--just long
enough for Joe Burgess to escape into the safety zone of the
block-house. The smoky fog had been split by the first beams of the
sun, and much of the struggle had taken place in full view of Ranger
Higgins' comrades inside the fort gate.

They were six men and one woman--Mrs. Pursley, the wife of Ranger
Pursley. What could they few do? Tom! Hurrah for Tom! See! He was
still on his feet--he was still at it! The brave fellow! But how
could they help him? The main band of Indians were in sight; the
block-house, and the wounded lieutenant, must not be left unprotected--

Mrs. Pursley stormed.

"Out with