The little war sprite timed her plot to a nicety. When the Senecas were well up in the pass, and surrounded on all sides by the Monseys, whom they imagined all crowded into the stockade, “Black Agnes” fired her shot, and the slaughter began. The Senecas began falling on all sides, thanks to the unerring aim of the Monsey riflemen, but they were too inured to warfare to break and run, especially when caught in a trap.
Shingaegundin, enraged beyond all expression at again being flouted by a woman, and a member of the tribe of “old women,” determined to die gamely, and within the stockade which harbored “Black Agnes.” He seemed to bear a charmed life, for while his cohorts fell about him, he plunged on unhurt. The gate of the stockade was open, and “Black Agnes” stood just within it, directing her warriors, a quaint but captivating little figure, more like a sprite or fairy than one of flesh and blood.
OLD CONESTOGA WAGON, BRUSH VALLEY
Shingaegundin espied her, and knew at a glance that this must be the woman who the wise men of his tribe had selected to be his bride, and the cause of this senseless battle. His was a case of love at first sight, the very drollness of her tiny form adding to his passion, and he ran forward, determined to be killed holding her in his arms and pressing kisses on her dusky cheeks.
Such thoughts enhanced his ambition and courage, and he shouted again and again to his braves to pick themselves up and come on as he was doing. Dazed with love, he imagined in a blissful moment that he would yet have the victory and carry “Black Agnes” home under his arm like a naughty child.
Just outside the palisade he was met by three of Agnes’ bodyguard, armed with stone hatchets. None of his warriors were near him; shot and bleeding, they were writhing on the grass, while some were already in the hands of the Monsey braves, who had come down from their eyries, and were dexterously plying the scalping knives. Few of the mutilated Senecas uttered cries, although as the scalps were jerked off, it was hard to suppress involuntary sobs of pain.
“Black Agnes” saw nothing in the long, lank form of Shingaegundin to awaken any love; she detested him as belonging to the race that had sold her birthright and foully murdered her father, and she called to her warriors: “Suffer no grass to grow on the war-path,” signifying to carry on the fight with vigor.
Shingaegundin was soon down, his skull battered and cracked in a dozen places. Even when down, his ugly spirit failed to capitulate. Biting and scratching and clawing with his nails like a beast, he had to have his skull beaten like a copperhead before he stretched out a lifeless, misshapen corpse. As he gave his last convulsive kick the Monsey warriors began streaming through the gates, some holding aloft scalps dripping with blood, while others waved about by the scalp locks, the severed heads of their defeated foemen.
Never had such a rout been inflicted on the Senecas; perhaps “Black Agnes” would be a second Jeanne d’Arc, and lead the Lenni-Lenape back to their former glories and possessions!