The Indian who had attacked Dave had made a desperate clutch at the young soldier's throat. But Dave had caught the wrist so quickly thrust forth, and now the two were fighting with one arm of each thrust out and up and the other wound tightly about the enemy's neck. Thus they swayed back and forth, each doing his best to force an advantage and each failing. Both looked about, thinking that possible assistance might be at hand, but all the others engaged in the combat were too busy to notice them.
Slowly but surely the pair drew closer to the edge of the river, which at this point was some fifteen or twenty feet below the ledge of rock upon which the combat was occurring. In the stream the rapids swirled and boiled in every direction, occasionally sending a shower of spray up to their very feet. The dampness made the rocks slippery and both had all they could do to retain their footing.
At last Dave seemed to obtain a slight advantage. The Indian relaxed his vigor for just a moment and in that fraction of time the young soldier caught him by the throat and gave him such a squeeze that the redman's windpipe was well-nigh dislocated.
At this the Indian uttered a grunt and began to back away, but still retained his grip on Dave. This brought the pair closer than ever to the edge of the rocks.
"Look out!" came a sudden cry from Henry, who happened to see the movement. "Dave! Dave! Look out!"
Dave heard the cry, but was powerless to heed it. At the very edge the rocks were worn smooth, and of a sudden the Indian slid backward dragging the young soldier with him! Over went both, into the flying spray, to disappear a moment later beneath the surface of the fiercely running rapids.
Henry saw the fall and his heart leaped into his throat, for he felt that it could mean but one thing for his cousin, and that death. But even had he been able to do anything, which was doubtful, he was given no chance, for now the advancing Iroquois surrounded him and Barringford upon every side.
The scene to follow was one which it would be hard for pen to describe. Feeling that it might be his last stand on earth, Barringford's whole will-power arose to the occasion, and once again he was the very personification of reckless courage, just as he had been when the Indians had attacked the trading post on the Kinotah. With clubbed musket he whirled around from right to left and left to right so quickly that the human eye could scarcely follow him.
"Come on, ye red sarpints o' the woods!" he yelled. "Come on, an' I'll show ye the real trick o' fightin'! Ye don't know what a roarin', blusterin' hurricane ole Sam Barringford is when he's woke up, do ye? Thar's one fer ye, an' thar's another, an' another! Cut me loose, will ye! I'll show what a generwine ole Injun fighter kin do! Yer nuthin' 'tall but a lot of measly pappoose, thet's wot ye be, an' don't yer go fer to wake up sech a roarin' mountain painter as me!"
Barringford had just brought down his third Indian and was still at it, with Henry lending all the aid possible, when there came a sudden war-cry from the woods to the north of the opening. It was the cry of Indians friendly to the English, and scarcely had it ended when White Buffalo burst into view, followed by a number of his braves.