gerly, rifle ready, he rushed forward.

He burst into a clearing and found himself facing a half circle of
nearly a dozen bucks, their shaved scalps and bare chests gleaming with
sweat. Behind them cowered a pack of squaws and children.

The warriors shouted at Raoul and his men and beckoned to them. Right in
the center was one man much taller than the rest, with the red and white
feathers of a brave tied into his scalplock. Whatever insults or
challenges he was uttering, he looked Raoul right in the eye and shouted
directly at him.

Raoul felt a chill of fear. The Indian's flesh was wasted, but his
skeleton was huge. He looked like he'd be as hard to stop as a tornado.
And he was holding a rifle in arms and hands so big that they made it
look small.

The other warriors didn't have rifles or even bows. They must have run
out of powder and shot and arrows. They held clubs and knives and
tomahawks.

_They want us to fight hand to hand. That's what Indians do to show
their courage._

_The hell with that._

With a movement that seemed almost contemptuous, the big Indian dropped
the rifle to the ground. He reached down and picked up a war club
painted red and black, with a huge spike at its end.

"Let's pay 'em back, boys!" Raoul shouted. "For all of our people they
killed."

"Oui! For Marchette," said Armand, raising his rifle. His first shot
caught a warrior in the chest and knocked him down.

At that the Indians rushed Raoul and his men.

Raoul felt himself trembling uncontrollably as the bony giant in the
center came straight at him. The big Indian held his war club in front
of him, as if to deflect bullets.

Forcing his arms to hold steady, Raoul aimed his rifle at the Indian's
head and fired.

And missed.

_I should have aimed at his chest._

Raoul cursed his shaking hand as he dropped his rifle and pulled his
pistol.

The brown giant gave a long, full-throated war cry.

Raoul pulled the trigger. He saw a spark, heard the bang of the
percussion cap, but there was nothing more. He cried out in a fury. His
sweat must have dampened the powder.

The club came down on the pistol, and Raoul to his horror felt it
knocked out of his hand. Again the big Indian screamed out his
blood-freezing war whoop and raised the club high.

Raoul's empty hand fumbled for his Bowie knife. He had it out, a death
grip on the hilt. He lunged at his enemy. A jolt ran through Raoul's arm
to his shoulder as the point of