“Go to the front—do some fighting yourself!” growled Benoit Vascal. He had received an ugly wound in the forearm.
“I am not afraid,” answered Jean Bevoir, recklessly. He too had been drinking freely. And forward he rushed, and some of his countrymen with him, following up the Indians to the gateway of the stockade.
The battle was now on in all its fury. Two of the frontiersmen had been shot down and Sam Barringford had been struck in the thigh. Dave was on the point of using the pistol he carried when a warrior hit him in the side with an arrow.
“Dave!” cried Joseph Morris, in alarm, but could say no more, for he found himself confronted also, and had to fight his best to save his life. He was struck by a bullet in the shoulder, but the wound was of small consequence.
The noise was now terrific, the Indians yelling like demons and the guns and pistols being discharged freely. Some of the contestants were at it hand-to-hand, with hunting knives, tomahawks, and clubs. Slowly but surely the English were driven back from the gateway, and Indians and French began to crowd into the trading post enclosure.
“We can’t keep this up! They are too many for us!” gasped one of the frontiersmen. The blood was pouring from a cut in his cheek. “It’s three or four to one!”
“It’s for life or death!” came from another. “Don’t give in! The Indians will show no mercy! We must fight to a finish!”
All realized the truth of the speaker’s remarks. The Indians would surely kill them all or else make them prisoners first and torture them to death afterwards. It would be better to die fighting than to allow themselves to be captured.
In the midst of the noise and excitement a yell was heard from the forest, and then followed several scattering shots. No one paid attention to these for the minute, but soon came a yell that caused the Indians under Moon Eye to listen in consternation. It was the war-cry of the Delawares, and it told that they were about to enter the fray.
“What’s that?” came from Joseph Morris.