On the Border with Andrew Jackson

by John T. McIntyre

“Made for fort,” stated Running Elk, whose searching glance had been going about. “Long time ago.”

At once the four horses were driven into the bowl, and made to lie down in the center; then the defenders gave their attention to the oncoming foe.

The Creeks had come on slowly; it was evident that they felt sure of their prey and so were in no great hurry to close in. At the head of the band advancing from the direction of the forest was a tall, evil looking brave carrying a long tufted spear; he seemed to exult in the prospect of bringing death to the white face, and he danced fantastically and flourished the spear.

“They are about in range now,” said Jack Davis, as he threw his long rifle forward. “But hold your fire, Frank, until I have a try.” The piece went to his shoulder, the barrel resting upon the edge of the hollow. “That fellow doing the dancing seems to be mighty pleased,” added the young borderer, grimly. “So I just think I’ll try to make him laugh on the other side of his mouth.”

The long tube of the rifle held steadily upon the exultant savage for an instant; then the weapon cracked; the tufted spear was flung high in the air, as the Creek’s arms went up; and with a yell he dropped prone upon the sward.

A chorus of yells followed this; and while they were still sounding, Frank’s piece spoke clearly and spitefully; a warrior in advance of his fellows, upon the opposite side, screeched his death note and fell to the earth.

At once the bands to which the fallen braves had belonged scattered and fell back. They were still out of bow shot; a few rifles sounded from among them, but the pieces were of obsolete pattern and poor range, so the bullets did no harm. However, the parties upon the two other sides had sustained no loss; and so they came on with a speed greatly increased by the yells and shots.

With cool, practiced hands, the two young riflemen rammed home fresh charges of powder and ball; Frank sprang to one side and Jack to another.

“Sight ’em carefully,” admonished Jack, “and don’t let go until you’re sure of bringing down your Injun.”

Again the long weapons cracked, one after the other, and two more Creeks fell with wide flung arms and yells of pain. And that was not all. The youthful Cherokee had been impatiently waiting a chance to bring his bow into the conflict; the chance had now come. So he rose up beside Frank and the bowstring sang shrilly. The feathered shaft whistled through the air and found its mark; then before the stricken brave had sunk to the ground, the pantherish speed of Running Elk had carried him across the little fort; upon the opposite side, the one covered by Jack, the bowstring sounded again, and another warrior fell, transfixed through the shoulder.