Scarcely had reinforcements
attained the summit before the torrent of savagery burst screeching on
their front.
From point to point the grim struggle raged, till nightfall wrought
partial cessation. The wearied troopers stretched out their lines so
as to protect the packs and the field hospital, threw themselves on the
ground, digging rifle-pits with knives and tin pans. Not until nine
o'clock did the Indian fire slacken, and then the village became a
scene of savage revel, the wild yelling plainly audible to the soldiers
above. Through the black night Brant stepped carefully across the
recumbent forms of his men, and made his way to the field hospital. In
the glare of the single fire the red sear of a bullet showed clearly
across his forehead, but he wiped away the slowly trickling blood, and
bent over a form extended on a blanket.
"Has he roused up?" he questioned of the trooper on guard.
"Not to know nuthin', sir. He's bin swearin' an' gurglin' most o' ther
time, but he's asleep now, I reckon."
The young officer stood silent, his face pale, his gaze upon the
distant Indian fires. Out yonder were defeat, torture, death, and
to-morrow meant a renewal of the struggle.
Pages:
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413