ment, terribly stirred by a foe whom he could yet
neither see nor hear. Almost unconsciously, he placed himself by the
side of Henry Ware, his old partner, to whom he now looked up as a son
of battle and the very personification of forest skill.

"Are they really there, Henry?" he asked. "I see nothing and hear
nothing."

"Yes," replied Henry, "they are in front of us scarcely a rifle shot
away, five to our one."

Paul strained his eyes, but still he could see nothing, only the green
waving forest, the patches of undergrowth, the rocks on the steep hills
to right and left, and the placid blue sky overhead. It did not seem
possible to him that they were about to enter into a struggle for life
and for those dearer than life.

"Don't shoot wild, Paul," said Henry. "Don't pull the trigger, until you
can look down the sights at a vital spot."

A few feet away from them, peering over a log and with his rifle ever
thrust forward was Mr. Pennypacker, a schoolmaster, a graduate of a
college, an educated and refined man, but bearing his part in the dark
and terrible wilderness conflict that often left no wounded.

The stillness was now so deep that even the scouts could hear no sound
in front. The savage army seemed to have melted away, into the air
itself, and for full five minutes they lay, waiting, waiting, always
waiting for something that they knew would come. Then rose the fierce
quavering war cry poured from hundreds of throats, and the savage horde,
springing out of the forests and thickets, rushed upon them.

Dark faces showed in the sunlight, brown figures, naked save for the
breechcloth, horribly painted, muscles tense, flashed through the
undergrowth. The wild yell that rose and fell without ceasing ran off in
distant echoes among the hills. The riflemen of Kentucky, lying behind
trees and hillocks, began to fire, not in volleys, not by order, but
each man according to his judgment and his aim, and many a bullet flew
true.

A sharp crackling sound, ominous and deadly, ran back and forth in the
forest. Little spurts of fire burned for a moment against the green, and
then went out, to give place to others. Jets of white smoke rose
languidly and floated up among the trees, gathering by and by into a
cloud, shot through with blue and yellow tints from sky and sun.

Henry Ware fired with deadly aim and reloaded with astonishing speed.
Paul Cotter, by his side, was as steady as a rock, now that the suspense
was o