But now Barringford showed his backwoods training and his unbounded courage. Taking a quick aim he sent one Indian to earth with a bullet through his breast. Then, as another red man fired on him, hitting him in the shoulder, he swung his gun around, and down went the enemy with a crushed arm. With his own left arm hanging limply at his side, the old hunter leaped in again, swinging his rifle at arm’s length and mowing down two others as with a scythe.
“Want ter fight, eh?” he roared. “All right, I’ll give ye all ye want! Thet fer ye, an’ thet! I’m a painter when I’m aroused, an’ don’t ye forgit it—a roaring, howling mountain lion an’ painter rolled inter one! Thar’s a wolloping fer ye!” And he danced around like a madman, moving so quickly that try their best the Indians could not reach him. His coonskin cap was off, his hair was flying freely about his head, and his eyes blazed with the fury of a serpent.
The others were not idle. With the close approach of the Indians, those in the loft hurried below, and soon Putty was in the yard along with two others, fighting fiercely at close range. Arrows were flying in all directions and just as Dave appeared at a window one whizzed past his ear and buried itself in the wall opposite. He heard one old hunter named Larrison give a cry of mortal agony and saw him pitch forward on the grass dead, and saw one of the friendly Indians go down, shot in the leg. In the meantime the other Indians had caught one of Red Bird’s followers near the stables and had tomahawked and scalped him.
In the midst of the tumult, and when it was impossible to tell how the encounter was going, another war-whoop rang out, coming from the forest to the eastward. This was a new cry, different from that heard before, and both the whites and the Indians around the stockade listened in amazement.
“It’s the war cry of the Delawares!” ejaculated one of the men. “It must be White Buffalo and his braves!”
“White Buffalo!” exclaimed Dave. “Pray God it is! He will surely aid us.”
The war cry continued, and as it came closer, the whites saw that the Miamis were much disturbed, not only by this but by the fall of Red Bird, who had led the expedition, Fox Head being away on a mission to the French. Suddenly one gave a signal and at this the Miamis began to withdraw as quickly as they had appeared.
“They are retreating!” said Dave, joyfully. “It must indeed be White Buffalo who is coming. See them run!”
“Give it to ’em!” was the cry from several sides. “Don’t let them escape! They need the lesson!” And as the Indians retreated, the stockade gate was swung open and those who were able to do so ran out, firing as they went. At the same time the Delawares also opened fire from the forest and then came leaping on, whooping at the top of their lungs and flourishing their tomahawks.
Feeling that the contest was lost to them, the Miamis fled down the river to where they had left their canoes. Three of the craft managed to get away, having sixteen or eighteen warriors on board. The other canoes were sunk while yet close at hand, and the swimmers were either shot down in mid-stream or tomahawked when they came ashore. This completion of the battle was left entirely to the Indians themselves, the whites thinking it their duty to remain in the vicinity of the trading-post.