For, drowning the drum roll, the fort Indians had answered with the war-whoop; and out of the fort gates were rushing the French—some of them in only their shirts, but all armed; and they and the Indians, numbering hundreds, charged for the Highland company.
“Wah!” cried Scarouady. “The petticoat warriors mean to fight.”
And they did fight. They stood firmly, their guns belched, the French and Indians broke, and flowed on either side; the Highland men turned about, they charged through, their captain fell dead, but they got into the woods, and next the woods were full of shooting and yelling. Indians were running in every direction.
“We shall have to get out of here,” said Scarouady. He and Robert ran.
They ran a long distance, dodging the shooting, for it was a question of saving their scalps. The woods were like a hornets’ nest. After about two miles they discovered more men.
“Long Knives!” Scarouady cried; and with Robert shouting “Friend!” they ran in to these.
These were Captain Bullitt’s company, guarding the baggage on the trail. They were anxious and peering, for they had heard the battle sounds; but Robert had had scarcely time to gasp the news when the woods echoed more loudly, and the Highland soldiers began to race in.
“What’s the word? Quick?” Captain Bullitt demanded.
“A’ beaten, a’ beaten!” they wailed. “We ha’ seen gude men up to their hunkers in mud an’ a’ the skeen aff their heads!”