The cracking of the revolvers scared the Indians for a time, but at length these gave out. As they did so, the whites threw them at their foes, knocking several from their saddles with these missiles.
The ones knocked over got upon their feet again, but one and all had badly damaged faces.
And now the combat was hand to hand, hilt to hilt.
Which of the two parties will prove victorious, and which will come out of the small end of the horn.
The knives of the three men were out, and in full play.
The little naturalist was using his heavy umbrella with great effect. This was a novel weapon to the Indians, and they are generally afraid of any thing new, even though it is not deadly.
Therefore they kept as far away from the “monsieur” as they possibly could. He managed to knock at least half a dozen from their horses, however, and began to get so excited that he broke into a torrent of French words.
His tongue ran on like a machine, freshly greased, and the Indians looked with wonder upon him. They thought that all persons who talked so much were either women or cowards.
Yet here was a brave man who could beat any talker they had ever seen. At every blow he gave a shrill yell and then went to work again with both his umbrella and his tongue.
As to the knives which the other three carried, the Indians were used to them, and they pressed our friends pretty closely.