“It is certain,” said the Star Woman quietly, looking up at him. “When the sun lifts, Metaminens will be here. Tell the others.”
Crawford told them, but they only grunted; those redskins had no illusions now.
The dawn increased, and up the eastern sky pierced the first reddened lance-tips of the day. Black Kettle divided with the four Dacotah the remaining arrows, and waited. Frontin and Crawford smoked. From the sacred grove beyond the breastwork arose a murmur of voices, among them lifting the deep tones of Maclish. One of the Dacotah, listening, uttered a curt laugh and translated.
“They say the Red Bull is a coward; they will not attack unless he leads them.”
As though in response, a burst of yells lifted from the trees.
“Coming!” said Frontin, and knocked out his pipe.
The seven ranged themselves behind the fallen trees, arrows on string, long war-clubs ready, tomahawk and knife at belt; Crawford stood in the centre, Frontin and the Mohegan to either side of him. The pealing whoop of Black Kettle made fierce answer to the yells, and then across the opening came a rush of dark figures.
Now the Dacotah bows thrummed and sang for the last time, and the biting shafts flew fast; no arrows made answer, for Maclish wanted to take the Star Woman alive. The eastern sky was all aflame with scarlet and gold, and full day was breaking. Stumbling across their dead, the Stone Men flooded onto the breastwork, crashed amid the boughs, and came storming over it. And at their head, hurling himself madly forward, was Maclish, axe in hand.
Crawford waited, crouching, laughing softly to himself. He did not move as the burly Scot smashed into the tangle of tree-limbs, until he saw that red-bearded animal’s face lift into sight not three feet from him—then, rising suddenly, he flung himself out and grappled his enemy.
It was axe to axe, fist to fist, man to man, while about them the tide of battle rolled unheeded and unheeding. Crawford flashed his axe, felt it torn from his hand, and whipped out his knife. Steel was biting him, but he felt it not. He bore the Scot backward, laughed into the contorted face, drove home his knife again and again until he was amazed to find that his work was done. Before the wild ferocity of the attack, Maclish crumpled up and gasped, and died cursing.