The trigger of Ben’s rifle fairly burned against his finger, but he tensely awaited the command to shoot. Nearer, yet nearer, came the savage horde, and it seemed that in another minute the Indians would be upon them.
“Fire!” Stillman shouted, the single, sharp word of command cracking out like the snap of a whip-lash.
Thirty eager fingers pulled trigger at once. Flashes of fire rimmed the timber edge, and a cloud of smoke floated out over the lush prairie. The deadly bullets crashed into the line of whooping Sacs. Several ponies and riders went down. Three coppery bodies lay inert on the sod. Wounded horses, screaming with pain, galloped wildly about. The Sacs whooped with rage and fired back, those of them who possessed muskets. Dust and smoke mingled, and heavy with odors and vapors, drifted over the whole hectic scene.
When he finally pressed the trigger, Ben aimed pointblank at a tall Sac warrior. As the rifle spat fire, he saw the warrior no more. After that he fired as fast as he could, shooting at whatever Indian was nearest. The little pulses in his head were beating harder than ever, and he fought as in a wild dream, but nevertheless he fought furiously.
He remembered afterward that he could feel Jim Martin at his right and one of the other troopers at the left, while Stillman was posted only a few yards away. Where was Van Alstyne, he vaguely wondered? Great guns! Had he, too, fled the scene. Ben thought not. The Captain was full of blind folly, but he did not look the coward.
The crash of the thirty rifles was now so steady that it sounded like the roll of thunder. Mingled with it was the fierce yelping of the savages and the sullen, nerve-racking pounding of their war-drums. The whites, on the other hand, seldom shouted, but fought for the most part in grim silence. Bullets found their mark in the white ring also. Men were wounded, but they hid it for the time, bravely keeping their places among the defenders. Ben felt something hot searing his shoulder like a flame, but he knew that he was merely grazed and it slipped from his mind the next moment, in the excitement of battle.
But now the charging Sacs suddenly veered, and rode around the flank of the grove to the east, shouting their defiant war-cries with renewed strength. In a moment they had swept into the eastern part of the encampment, which had by now been practically deserted by the fleeing volunteers, almost the last of whom was a quarter-mile distant on the prairie, scudding madly for Dixon’s Ferry, teeth chattering with fear.
The little band of thirty whites in the timber raised a glad shout of victory. The ring of fire spouting from their guns had beaten off the men of Black Hawk—for the time being. But Major Stillman knew well enough that the attack would eventually come again. The second time it would be more difficult to beat back, as the wily Sacs could now creep up on the defenders from the rear, through the tents and trees of the grove.
Their skirmishers, slipping along the ground like red snakes, would press closer and closer, ever more dangerous. Hawk-eyed sharpshooters would pick off the helpless whites one by one. Gradually the little band of defenders would be cut down, caught in this tight trap, virtually unable to protect themselves against the skulking, well-hidden marksmen.
Meantime, the triumphant Sacs were busily engaged in pillaging the big camp. Raucous shouts and gleeful yelps resounded from the far side of the grove. Now and then there was a terrified scream, closely followed by a gunshot. The few white volunteers who had attempted to hide among the tents were being ferreted out and mercilessly killed and scalped.