So, craftily, he began to plan to draw them out; by a feint he accomplished this. Thinking they saw a chance to strike a deadly blow, the Creeks rushed forward with exultant yells. But the whites closed around them like a ring of iron and there began a most desperate combat. Rifles cracked, pistols exploded vengefully, tomahawks and hunting knives rose and fell in the mêlée.
It was the first engagement of the sort in which Frank Lawrence had ever been; but he stood shoulder and shoulder with Jack and fired and struck with purpose and deliberation. To all intents he was as steady as a veteran. Jack had taken part in more than one desperate affray with the red men in his expeditions into their hunting country, and so he was more or less familiar with their methods.
“Look out for the wounded Creeks,” he advised Frank as he reloaded his piece. “They are never too weak to strike another blow. And they are not always dead when they appear to be so. They have a habit of lying quiet and entangling your legs when you come within reach, and pulling you down within reach of a knife.”
Colonel Coffee raged among the Indians like an infuriated giant. His great sword rose and fell; he always had a clear space around him which his weapon’s sweep constantly made larger. Ensign Houston fought like a panther. He seemed to glory in the dangers which beset him; wherever the battle raged thickest he plunged with his shining face and wild laugh, and the bravest of the Creeks shrank from his crashing blows.
Tighter and tighter closed the steel-like ring about the red men.
“Remember Fort Mims!” was the slogan of the backwoodsmen. “Strike hard!”
Desperation itself was the conduct of the Creeks; they fought like trapped wolves, ever seeking to break through the circle of their foes. But at length, when the last rifle had cracked, the last pistol had spoken its sharp sentence of death, the last hatchet, sword and knife had ceased to rise and fall, the smoke of the conflict slowly lifted and drifted away. Of the warriors of Tallushatchee more than a hundred and sixty were slain, and the remainder were taken prisoners. And when the white men took their way back to the river through the morning light they bore upon improvised stretchers six of their own men dead, and almost a half hundred wounded.
CHAPTER X
AN INDIAN MESSENGER
At Fort Strother things were going with little smoothness; in spite of all that General Jackson could do, supplies came very irregularly through the forests and across the mountains. As things stood, almost any other commander would have fallen back until arrangements could be made to feed the army; but Jackson held on grimly. He knew that this was the time to strike; if he retreated the savages would at once conclude that it was a sign of fear on the part of the paleface, and so their ravages would have grown greater than ever.
“The contractors must do better!” declared the haggard commander of the forces of Tennessee. “No matter what comes or goes, this force must hold its place. I’ll not retreat!” One gaunt hand was lifted as he spoke; there was a stain of fever in the hollow cheeks, his deep-set eyes glowed lion-like from under his bushy brows. “The men who are risking their lives to protect this border must have food; and if it’s not sent them, those who have neglected their duty will reckon with me.”