ce rose, and the furious conflict
between white man and red rapidly thickened and deepened, becoming a
confused and terrible medley.

Henry Ware and Jim Hart ran down into the stream by the side of the
leading wagons, and loaded and fired swiftly into the dense brown mass
before them. Nor did they send a bullet amiss. Henry Ware was conscious at
that moment of a fierce desire to see the face of Braxton Wyatt amid the
brown horde. He knew he was there, somewhere, and in the rage of conflict
he would gladly have sent a bullet through the renegade's black heart. He
did not see him, but the dauntless youth pressed steadily forward,
continually shouting encouragement and showing the boldest example of them
all.

A bank of blue and white smoke arose over the stream, shot through by the
flashes of the rifle firing, and out of this bank came the defiant shouts
of the combatants. Suddenly, from the high bank, on the shore that they
had just left, burst a tremendous volley--fifty rifles fired at once. A
yell of pain and rage burst from the savages. Those rifles had mowed a
perfect swath of death among them.

"Good old Sol! Good old Sol!" exclaimed Henry, twice through his shut
teeth. "On, men, on! Trample them down! Drive the wagons into them!"

A second time the unexpected volley burst from the hill, and a storm of
bullets beat upon the packed mass of the savages at the edge of the water.
Henry Ware had been a true general that day. Shif'less Sol and his men,
from their height and hid among the bushes, poured volley after volley
into the savages below, spurred on by their own success and the
desperation of the cause.

The front wagons advanced deeper into the water and the smoke bank, and
the others came, closely packed behind in a huddle. Unearthly screams
arose--the cries of wounded or dying horses, shot by the savages.

"Cut them loose from the gear," cried Henry, "and on! always on!"

Swift and skillful hands obeyed him, and some of the wagons, in the wild
energy of the moment, were carried on, partly by a single horse and partly
by the weight of those behind them. The shouts of the savages never
ceased, but above them rose the cry of the dauntless soul that now led the
wagon train. More than one savage fired at the splendid figure, never more
splendid than when in battle; but always the circling smoke or the hand of
Providence protected him, and he still led on, unhurt. They were now near
the middle of the river, and