“You’re lucky it’s no worse, Zeb.”
“That’s what the feller said as lost both legs. If I can keep clear o’ the scalpin’ knife I’ll fight agin, sure’s yer born!”
“If I’m alive to do it I’ll see that you are taken off the field to-night.”
“I know ye will if the redcoats don’t take the field away from ye. If they do, the red devils will get more scalps than they can carry.”
“They haven’t got it yet. Here we go again,” and, saying this, he joined the mass of running men returning to the charge.
There was the same din, the same clouds of acrid powder smoke, which now is lifted by a breeze, showing the solid ranks awaiting them. As Rodney fires he is conscious that he has shot an Indian, an Indian with blue eyes! What was an Indian doing in those serried ranks, why wasn’t he skulking on the outskirts as Indians should? The enemy yield, and are driven back on to a rise of land in their rear, where they make a stand and again hurl back the riflemen.
As the Rangers retreat, Rodney sees the Indian lying on the ground lift his rifle to shoot. A Ranger knocks it aside, while another aims a blow that would have brained the savage had not Rodney knocked it aside, for he had recognized Conrad!
“Help me to take him,” he cried.
“Kill him an’ leave him,” cried another.