ler than the others, making its rider a trifle lower than his
comrades. And then I caught one glimpse of the rider's face. It was the
man whose bullet had wounded Morton--Jean Pahusca.

We held back our fire again, as in the first attack, until the foe was
almost upon us. With Forsyth's order, "Now! now!" our part of the drama
began. I marvel yet at the power of that return charge. Steady,
constant, true to the last shot, we swept back each advancing wave of
warriors, maddened now to maniac fury. In the very moment of victory,
defeat was breaking the forces, mowing down the strongest, and spreading
confusion everywhere. A thousand wild beasts on the hills, frenzied with
torture, could not have raged more than those frantic Indian women and
shrieking children watching the fray.

With us it was the last stand. We wasted no strength in this grim
crisis; each turn of the hand counted. While fearless as though he bore
a charmed life, the gallant savage commander dared death at our hands,
heeding no more our rain of rifle balls than if they had been the drops
of a summer shower. Right on he pressed regardless of his fallen braves.
How grandly he towered above them in his great strength and superb
physique, a very prince of prowess, the type of leader in a land where
the battle is always to the strong. And no shot of our men was able to
reach him until our finish seemed certain, and the time-limit closing
in. But down in the thick weeds, under a flimsy rampart of soft sand,
crouched a slender fair-haired boy. Trim and pink-cheeked as a girl,
young Stillwell was matching his cool nerve and steady marksmanship
against the exultant dominance of a savage giant. It was David and
Goliath played out in the Plains warfare of the Western continent. At
the crucial moment the scout's bullet went home with unerring aim, and
the one man whose power counted as a thousand warriors among his own
people received his mortal wound. Backward he reeled, and dead, or
dying, he was taken from the field. Like one of the anointed he was
mourned by his people, for he had never known fear, and on his banners
victory had constantly perched.

In the confusion over the loss of their leader the Indians again divided
about the island and fell back out of range of our fire. As the tide of
battle ebbed out, Colonel Forsyth, helpless in his sand pit, watching
the attack, called to his guide.

"Can they do better than that, Grover?"

"I've been on the Plain