"Shall we begin, brothers?" he whispered. "Hold your fire until I run out of arrows."
"Ja," agreed Peter. "Budt do not shoot Red Jack or der nigger. We will safe them if we can."
"You can take on the negro," I spoke up. "Leave Bolling to me."
Peter looked doubtful.
"He is a goodt knife-fighter," he commenced to argue; but Ta-wan-ne-ars chose that moment to open his bombardment, and the Dutchman's remonstrance went for naught.
A green arrow streaked across the grove and buried its barbed bone head in the chest of one of the Cahnuagas. The man shrieked and tore at the shaft with his hands. His companions scattered right and left. But Ta-wan-ne-ars gave them no respite. His shafts filled the air. The green arrows drove into the packs, quivered in tree-trunks, pierced another unfortunate.
"Are ye crazy?" shouted Bolling at the strangely hostile sumac clump. "Don't ye see——"
"It's dem —— False Faces," cried Tom, dancing with rage. "Dey got some hocus-pocus up. Fire at 'em."
Thus adjured, the Cahnuagas let off a ragged volley which whistled over our heads. Ta-wan-ne-ars discharged the last of his arrows and reached for his musket. At the same moment Peter fired, and I tailed him. We saw two of the Indians collapse. Peter caught up his second musket and he and Ta-wan-ne-ars shot again. 'Twas impossible to miss. Besides Bolling and Tom, only two of the enemy were left.
"Knife and hatchet for the rest," said Ta-wan-ne-ars grimly. "Are my brothers ready?"