This question could not be answered, for part of the Indians’ camp was concealed by a dense mass of brushwood.
The old hunters now resorted to strategy. The party was divided into three parts, which were to station themselves around the Indian encampment at equal distances. At a given signal two of the parties were to rush forward, and open on the red men. This would most likely drive the warriors under Long Knife to the shelter of another part of the forest, and here the third party was to open fire when they had the Indians at close range.
The hunters and pioneers moved to their stations without the slightest noise. Each man carried not only his rifle, but also a pistol and a long hunting knife.
Joe’s heart was thumping wildly, for he knew that this was to be the most dangerous battle in which he had so far taken part. But his teeth were firmly set.
“I’ll do my duty if I die for it,” was what he told himself—not once, but many times.
At last all was in readiness for the attack. The signal was given, and the whites of the two parties swept in closer still, and then opened fire.
At the first volley three Indians fell, one killed and the others mortally wounded. Then a fierce war-whoop sounded, and the braves caught up their own weapons.
The whites had calculated well, and, as they expected, the red men did their best to gain the forest ahead of them. As they came on, the third party of hunters met them, and in this onslaught six Indians fell to rise no more.
All of the guns and pistols had now been discharged, and a thick smoke filled the vicinity. In the midst of this, whites and Indians leaped at each other in a hand-to-hand encounter that was bloody in the extreme. Blood flowed freely, and Joe saw two old pioneers scalped before his eyes.
At the first shock of battle the young pioneer was stunned. But soon his presence of mind returned to him, and he became unusually cool and collected. He discharged his pistol almost in the face of one brawny Indian, and then engaged another with his hunting knife.