He'll never git my scalp, thet's sartin an' sure."
Beverley and Kenton each likewise dropped an Indian; but the shots
did not even check the rush. Long-Hair had planned to capture his
prey, not kill it. Every savage had his orders to take the white
men alive; Hamilton's larger reward depended on this.
Right on they came, as fast as their nimble legs could carry them,
yelling like demons; and they reached the grove before the three
white men could reload their guns. Then every warrior took cover
behind a tree and began scrambling forward from bole to bole, thus
approaching rapidly without much exposure.
"Our 'taters is roasted brown," muttered Oncle Jazon. He crossed
himself. Possibly he prayed; but he was priming his old gun the
next instant.
Kenton fired again, making a hurried and ineffectual attempt to
stop the nearest warrior, who saved himself by quickly skipping
behind a tree. Beverley's gun snapped, the flint failing to make
fire; but Oncle Jazon bored a little hole through the head of the
Indian nearest him; and then the final rush was made from every
direction.
A struggle ensued, which for desperate energy has probably never
been surpassed. Like three lions at bay, the white men met the
shock, and lion-like they fought in the midst of seventeen
stalwart and determined savages.
"Don't kill them, take them alive; throw them down and hold them!"
was Long-Hair's order loudly shouted in the tongue of his tribe.
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