The sign of the prophet

by J. B. Naylor

Douglas hurried from one place to another, warning the men of the ambuscade into which they were pushing, and beseeching them to return to the boats while there was yet time. His words fell upon deaf ears. Seeing at last that his countrymen had lost all reason—were drunk on the wine of success—he forced his way to the front, and fought like a demon. Duke kept at his master’s side. Man and dog were in the thick of the fray. The hound’s hoarse growl of rage sent terror to the heart of more than one dusky brave, and his gleaming fangs cut short more than one exultant war-whoop. Ross loaded and fired his gun with a speed and accuracy born of years of practice. The smoke of battle was in his nostrils; the lust of slaughter was in his brain. The savages slowly retreated until they reached a place suited to their tactics. There they promptly rallied and sought to outflank the Americans. The battle raged furiously on all sides. British re-enforcements arrived upon the scene. Retreat became an impossibility.

Douglas became separated from his comrades—but he fought on. His ammunition exhausted, he clubbed his rifle and dealt blow after blow at the heads of his red assailants. He felt his strength gradually failing, but he set his teeth and grimly resolved to die fighting. His faithful dog was no longer at his side; he was alone with his enemies. And death was leering at him—face to face.

“Fleet Foot! Fleet Foot! Kill him! Kill him!”

The words reached the young man’s ears. Instantly he understood why he had been singled out from his companions, why so many red fiends beset him. Among his foes, were the warriors who had tried to take his life at the Miami village upon the Mississinewa. The knowledge maddened him—renewed his energies. He resolved they should not have the pleasure of taking him captive—of torturing him. Dropping his gun, he drew his knife, meaning to resist as long as breath and blood were his. But at that moment the tide of battle surged toward him—around him; and his assailants were swept aside.

He drew a deep breath and looked around. The American columns were broken—scattered. The attacking army had become a fleeing rabble, in which each man was seeking his own safety. Realizing that the battle was lost, that there was no hope of rallying the flying militiamen, Ross groaned aloud:

“My God! What a defeat—what a disgrace!”

Then he picked up his rifle and set out after the fugitives. Scarcely had he taken ten steps, however, when clamorous yells assailed his ears and he saw that his escape toward the river was cut off by his old enemies. Quickly he whirled about and ran at full speed in the opposite direction, not heeding nor caring whither his course would take him. For a time he heard the heavy breathing and panted ejaculations of his pursuers. But gradually those sounds died out. Then all was silence—he was alone in the deep woods.

He dropped upon the ground and gasped for breath. His brain swam; his throat was on fire. Red and green lights flashed before his eyes; and rills of sweat trickled down his powder-stained face. He had received a knife thrust in the right arm and a tomahawk cut in the left shoulder. These superficial wounds had bled freely and saturated his hunting-shirt. He was completely exhausted.

For several minutes, he lay breathing hard and listening for the footfalls of his pursuers. But the stillness was broken only by his own labored respiration and the querulous twitter of birds among the boughs above him. He began to recover his wind. His limbs ceased to tremble; he felt his strength returning. But his thirst was tormenting; he must have water. With some difficulty he got upon his feet and looked about him. The dense, leafless wood stretched away on all sides as far as he could see. Near him was a pool of dark-colored water—stained with the ooze of the forest. It was warm and mawkish; but he drank of it with avidity.