Pandy's eyes soon fell upon him. He had the general's revolver in his hand, and was seated on his horse, engaged in emptying it with commendable precision, making every shot tell.
When the ranger looked again, a few moments later, the boy had disappeared.
"Poor feller, he's done fur; an' yet it'll likely be ther fate o' us all," muttered Pandy, as he drove his keen blade home in the broad breast of a brave.
At such a dread time as this the eye of a participant could not take in the entire scene.
All that Pandy was sure of after Cooke fell pierced by many wounds, was that every member of that heroic band fought as if the strength and endurance of a dozen men was in his body.
For every blue-coat who fell, at least two Indians bit the dust.
Although the fight had grown more silent, now that nearly all the firearms were discharged, it was none the less deadly on that account.
Sabers, red with human gore, were flashed in the sun's bright rays, and urged to their deadly work by arms that seemed iron in their endurance.
Lances, tomahawks and keen knives opposed them, and now and then a rifle added its weight to the side of the Indians.
On each occasion, some poor fellow would totter in his saddle, and finding himself going, show the spirit that imbued his nature by making a last sweeping blow at the enemy who held such a tight grip on them all.