The old hunter had seized a knife and was now beside his three comrades. Any one, upon looking at these men sitting on their horses so quietly, would have thought that they were so terror-stricken that they could not move.
But let him take a glance at their faces, and then he sees that which makes him confess at once that his former conviction was utterly false. In those flashing eyes, firmly-set teeth, and stern-looking faces he would read their determination.
If it was fated that they should die, then at least they would go on fighting bravely. The Comanches did not like the appearance of the four hunters in front of them.
They looked like men in a desperate strait, who would fight for their lives like lions, and the Indians felt a little of their courage oozing out of their finger-ends, as they gazed upon them.
But they had gone too far now to hesitate, and so with horrible yells, given to help keep their courage up, they mingled with the four whites.
Then began a combat which could only end in defeat to one of the two contesting parties. None of those who were fighting, had even a thought that the whites would get off.
The Frenchman was separated from the rest and was valiantly defending himself from the fierce attack of several of the Indians.
His umbrella was whirling around his head, and now and then coming against the head of an Indian with stunning force.
The other three were together, and plying their knives with vigor on their dusky assailants.
More than one of the fierce, and bloodthirsty Indians went down before the iron arm of the Hunter Hercules, and yet despite all of his valorous deeds, it seemed as though the four whites must go under at last. There was not a single chance for them to escape (as far as they or the Comanches could see,) and they had already made up their minds to it.