Ralph had one consolation, however, and that was the fact that if he did have to give up the ghost, he had slain his hated enemy, Red Buffalo, first. To the old hunter this was a great thing, and he gloried in the fact that the Comanche chieftain had bit the dust with his knife in his heart.
It seemed too bad on the part of the little Frenchman that he should be killed just as he had found the wonderful herb, and accomplished the darling object of his life.
But Monsieur Tierney was game to the back-bone, and not a word came from his lips as he fought on with stubborn bravery.
The guide had, upon first sight, taken the Frenchman to be a city chap, who would run at sight of a timid deer.
Now he found how greatly he had been mistaken.
He cast several admiring glances over to where the gallant foreigner fought, and at length, seeing how the other was being pressed by his foes, he fought his way over to him, and with his strong arm, stood and fought beside him.
Although every one of the four whites fought with terrible ferociousness, dealing blow after blow with savage earnestness, yet the odds were too great. The arms of three of them began to ache.
Barry Le Clare and Chauncy had both received a few slight wounds, but as yet none of the whites had been hurt very much.
Horror of horrors; would this terrible strife never come to an end? Would the Indians ever put an end to it by killing their opponents, or by fleeing themselves?
As to the latter, there was no chance of their doing that. Comanches were never known to leave a foe when he was in their power, and it was not at all likely that they would do so in the present instance.