Quick as a flash, before the brown
shoulder and body exposed to take aim could be withdrawn, Tom
Ross fired, and the Mohawk fell, uttering his death yell. The
Iroquois in the woods took up the cry, pouring forth a war whoop,
fierce, long drawn, the most terrible of human sounds, and before
it died, their brethren behind the embankment repeated it in
tremendous volume from hundreds of throats. It was a shout that
had often appalled the bravest, but the little band of scouts
were not afraid. When its last echo died they sent forth a
fierce, defiant note of their own, and, crawling forward, began
to send in their bullets.
The woods in front of them swarmed with the Indian skirmishers,
who replied to the scouts, and the fire ran along a long line
through the undergrowth. Flashes of flames appeared, puffs of
smoke arose and, uniting, hung over the trees. Bullets hissed.
Twigs and bark fell, and now and then a man, as they fought from
tree to tree. Henry caught one glimpse of a face that was white,
that of Braxton Wyatt, and he sought a shot at the renegade
leader, but he could not get it. But the scouts pushed on, and
the Indian and Tory skirmishers dropped back.
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