Just as they had reached, and were preparing to lift him up, the Indians again rushed forward to dispute his possession. They were within twenty paces, and brandishing their tomahawks triumphantly, when, suddenly, and one after another, burst in the midst of them, the grenades which had been hurled prematurely on the discharge of the field piece, and striking panic into their body, caused them once more hurriedly to retire.
But this check was only momentary. Rendered reckless at every moment from the liquor which all had more or less imbibed at different periods of the battle, and ashamed that they should be kept at bay by so mere a handful of men, the dark mass now fiercely closed upon the little party that bore off the wounded officer, and commenced their attack.
Meanwhile, Captain Headley, seeing this resolute forward movement of the Indians, and anticipating the certain destruction of the whole, moved his little square rapidly towards the gun, causing his men to take with them the ammunition which had been collected there, and soon the piece was again loaded and turned to his front. But it was found impossible to discharge the gun without endangering the lives of his own men more than those even of the enemy, for the Indians in immediate pursuit kept themselves so cautiously in the rear of the former, that, in the position he then occupied, it was impossible to reach them alone. The only movement that could save them was a rapid change of ground, so as to enable him to take the enemy in flank, and of this he hastened to avail himself by again occupying the sandhill. This was done; but in the short time taken to effect the movement, the bloodhounds had too well profited by their advantage.
At the head of the pursuers was the Chippewa, Pee-to-tum. His voice had been loudest in the war whoop, as his foot had been the most forward in the advance; and his denunciations of the dog Headley, as he called him, were bitter, and he called loudly for him that he might kill him with his tomahawk.
“Save yourselves, men, and leave me to my fate,” exclaimed the Virginian, as he heard the voice of the Chippewa almost in his ear. “Nixon, remove the colors from my shoulders and take them into the square. I shall not die happy until I know them to be secure.”
“Nay, sir,” said the non-commissioned officer, “we will not, cannot desert you; and, if we would, it is now out of our power—we are too closely pressed—we must fight to the last.”
“Then drop me, and turn and fight. Let us not be struck down like dastards, with our backs to the enemy. Where is that musket?”
“Here it is, sir,” said the serjeant; “but in your present disabled state you cannot make use of it.”
“At least I will try,” returned the Virginian. “If I could but slay the black-souled Pee-to-tum, I should revenge the treachery of this day, and perhaps be the means of saving the remnant of our brave fellows.”
“Oh!” gasped Nixon, as he fell suddenly dead upon the body of his wounded officer. He had been shot through the back and under the left rib. A fierce veil followed, and Ronayne beheld the hellish face of the Chippewa, looking more disgusting than ever in the loss of his left eye, as, with shining blade, he bounded forward to take the scalp of his victim.