Now and then he could see the English soldiers; they were surging this way, and that way, shooting without aim into the trees, while their officers beat their muskets down with swords or tried to wave a charge. Pretty soon he seemed to have reached the end of the Indians on this side of the road. And suddenly a Shawnee right before him leaped high, with a death yell; and while several other Indians in covert here broke and legged for safety, rifles cracked to stop them and a tall chief—followed by his men, among them a white man—raced in for the scalp.
Robert lunged forward, regardless. His shout was drowned in the scalp halloo of Scarouady; he tripped and fell, and next the hatchet of Scarouady was poised over his shaved head. Only just in time he wriggled aside, and flung up his arm and showed his face.
“No, no! See me, Scarouady!” he gasped.
“Wah!” panted Scarouady. “The Hunter! I saw a Mohawk scalp!”
Nothing more could be said now. Bullets sang past; Scarouady leaped for the Shawnee scalp, and he and Aroas, Gist, Iagrea, Newcastle and White Thunder “treed” again, to hold their ground.
The Hunter crept to Gist.
“Where’ve you been? You’ve turned Mohawk?” said Gist, between shots. “Why is that?”
“Shingis took me to fort,” the Hunter panted. “Guyasuta there. He turned me Mohawk to get me out. Where is Washington, Gist?”
“In the thick of it, I’ll wager,” rapped Gist. “Will you go to him?”