er to be forgotten. He hewed a road for himself
through the living crush, his rifle butt crashing amongst heads
recklessly, indiscriminately, but urged with all the might of his giant
strength. Seth and the Agent, and Nevil and the minister were his chief
supporters. And there was a light in the cleric's eyes, such as had never
been seen there before by any of his flock, and a devilish joy in his
heart as he felt the concussion of his blows upon heads that crushed
beneath them.

Back they drove the howling throng, back toward the fiery gateway. It
literally crumpled before their furious attack. But as the warriors fell
back the progress of the white men slowed and finally ceased altogether,
for the masses beyond were pressing, and so packed were the savages that
they could not retreat.

Darkness was settling over the land. The Indians rallied as the first fury
of the white men's onslaught spent itself. The red men, stern fighters at
all times, were quick to seize upon the advantage. And their counter was
no less furious than the defenders' assault had been. Step by step, with
hatchets gleaming in the yellow light, they regained their lost ground.

Slowly the white men were beaten back; all but Rube, whose fury was
unabated. He had cleared a space for himself, from which the fiercest
efforts of the enemy could not dislodge him.

Shouting to those behind to care for the women, Seth sprang to the old
man's side, and, setting his back to his, stood to help him. Retreat was
cut off, but, all unconcerned for everything, like a maddened bull, Rube
sought only to slay, to crush, to add to the tally of the dying and dead.

How the last moments of that terrible final stand were passed, Seth could
never have told. His long illness was telling on him. His weakness
affected him sorely. All he was aware of were his companion's mighty
blows, and the fury that was driving him. That, and the necessity to
defend him on his unprotected side. He fought as he could. No skill guided
him. Now, at last, he had no cunning, and he was hazily conscious of his
ineffectiveness.

Once he was forced to his knees by the blow of a hatchet, which, glancing
down his clubbed rifle, took him in the neck with its flat. It was at that
moment that his senses became aware of a distant bugle call. He scarcely
recognized it, and, certainly, at the moment, it brought him no
understanding.

Instinctively he struggled to his feet and fought on. Curiously eno