“We’ve got ’em on the run!” screamed an elated ranger.
“Keep ’em goin’!” howled a volunteer, trying to reload his piece as he fought his way through the head-high grass.
A second rank of savages was attempting to form on the ridge, but so furious was the charge of the triumphant whites that the red line broke completely, while the troopers were still twenty rods away. With hardly a shot fired, the panicky warriors swiftly retreated down the bluff, intent on joining their main body which was now starting to cross the river.
By this time it was raining so hard that it was virtually impossible to keep the muskets dry. Furthermore, at the far side of the bluff there was swampy terrain some hundred yards in width, and then a heavy fringe of timber on a strip of firm ground along the river bank at the ford. The last of the fleeing Indians had now spanned the marsh and reached this refuge; so it was deemed best to call off the pursuit for the night.
“It’d be suicide to cross that marsh in the face of musket fire from the timber,” asserted General Henry.
“I fear so, General,” Dodge reluctantly agreed, “but I only wish we had a brass twelve-pounder with us. We’d drive the red imps out of that cover in jig time.”
During the night after the battle there were frequent alarms from prowling Indians, and the troopers, fearing an attack, were under arms nearly the entire time. About an hour and a half before dawn, a loud, shrill voice was heard from the direction of the river bank. There was great commotion in the white camp for a time, for it was thought that the savage leader was issuing orders for a sortie.
“Ne-a-pope!” exclaimed Bright Star, identifying the owner of the mysterious voice.
“What in blazes is he saying?” demanded Ben Gordon.
“Ne-a-pope say pale-faces should run away,” translated the Pottawattomee.