"At dawn I went out with my axe into the red fight;
Like the grass before the fire, like the clouds before the wind,
I drove them. I, Sikaso, I drove them.
There were rivers that day; but the rivers were red.
They were the rivers of the blood of my enemies;
With my war-axe I killed them.
This is the song of mighty Sikaso, and his terrible axe of death."
Although the boys of course did not understand the words, the fierce voice in which the old warrior intoned the chant made them realize what a terrible foe he was likely to prove in battle. But now as Sikaso brought his song to a conclusion and rested his axe on the ground, leaning on its hilt, he suddenly stiffened into an attitude of close attention.
"Hark, my white brothers!" he cried, "the war-eagles are gathering for the slaughter."
But the slight sound the keen ears of the savage had caught without difficulty was longer in making itself manifest to the two white boys. After a few minutes of listening, so intense as to be painful, they likewise, however, distinctly heard the regular, rhythmic dip of paddles coming down the river.
"There are six war canoes full of them," announced, Sikaso, with almost a groan, after he had given close attention to the sounds. "Alas, my white brothers, there is little use of our giving battle."
"Well, I for one am not going to give up without dropping a few of the cowardly wretches," cried Billy.
"Nor I," echoed Lathrop, enthused by Billy's brave example.
The old warrior's eyes kindled as he gazed at the two brave young Americans, each clutching his rifle and waiting for the moment to arrive when they could use them.
"If we only had had time to throw up a stockade, my brothers, we might have driven them off yet," he cried.
"Well, we'll give as good an account of ourselves as possible," declared Lathrop.