Again Esther whispered the word of command. The cavalcade were in sight. One horseman, carrying a lantern on his saddle-bow, revealed the rest. With a sudden manœuvre a detachment of savages, headed by Queen Esther, threw themselves in front of the party. Quick as thought, the rest fell into place, surrounding the enemy with a triple hedge of men—a wall of rifles bristled around the doomed group.
The leader was taken by surprise and reined back his horse. The motion exposed his left side; crack! a bullet passed through him. The horse reared, plunged, and fell dead, striking against his nearest companion. Before the revolutionists could reach their holsters, it was too late. Some turned to fly, but the flash of muskets, shedding lurid fire among the green leaves, met them everywhere. A few broke the lines, and rushed away, wounded and bleeding. Three or four escaped unhurt, and fled like madmen into the deep forest. Queen Esther took no prisoners, but shot down her enemies in their track. Shrieks of pain and sharp cries of defiance answered to the storm of her bullets. Her blood rose, the fiery serpent in that woman’s heart crested itself. She shrieked to her followers, urging them on, and flinging her scalping-knife into the melée, called aloud for trophies.
Stern and terrible was that conflict, the more terrible because it occupied but a few minutes. The candle that burned in that lantern where it had dropped, was not the fraction of an inch shorter, and yet more than twenty souls had been torn out of life in that brief time.
“Now,” cried Queen Esther, cutting the thongs that bound Butler’s wrists, and sheathing her red scalping-knife, “catch their horses, mount and follow me to the camp. Some few stay behind, and kill those who are not quite dead. Remember, every rebel’s scalp is worth a piece of silver and a bottle of firewater—on!”
She took the stiletto from her bosom, pricked her black steed on the shoulder, and was carried away, with Butler by her side, sweeping that train of red warriors like a whirlwind through the darkness.
A few hours after, they came thundering into the camp; Queen Esther dismounted, without a flush on her cheek or a quickened breath to tell of the dreadful work she had done. Just as gravely and coldly as she had left the camp, she preceded Butler to the tent provided for her guests. Brant stood in the entrance with exultation in his eyes.
“I expected as much,” he said. “In the whole Six Tribes there is no warrior like Queen Esther. You see, Sir John, our heads are safe; the victorious are always generous. Well, Butler, I did not expect to see you again to-night.”
“And so left me to be rescued by a woman. I thank you,” said Butler sullenly.
Brant’s massive features broke into a smile.
“Tush,” he said; “a man who suffers himself to be taken prisoner by a handful of rebels deserves no better. I am not leagued with your white troopers to pick up the fools that drop off in a skirmish; men who surrender without even a blow of the fist should be left to the women.”