As the Indian sprang at him Dick clubbed his revolver, and
made a terrific swing at the shaven head of his attacker. The savage
dodged with the agility of a cat, and the blow merely glanced from his
shoulder. With a yell of exultation the Indian raised his sharp knife,
still dripping with the blood of its last victim. But before the weapon
could descend, Bert's fist shot out like lightning, catching the redskin
a terrific blow under the chin. The Indian's head snapped back, and he
was almost lifted from the ground by the impact. Then he fell limply, and
the fight waged on over his unconscious form.
The attackers, instead of being daunted by the fall of their leader,
seemed spurred to an even greater pitch of ferocity, and fought like very
demons. The whites, fighting silently and grimly, resolved to sell their
lives as dearly as might be, presented a solid front and battled with the
grim courage and ferocity of desperation. Bert and Dick and Tom fought as
one unit, and again and again repelled the assaults of their swarming
enemies.
But they were battling against overwhelming odds, and the end could not
be far off.
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