Paul found that Shif’less Sol was right.  The long waiting customary in such forest combats endured, but he was now becoming more of a stoic, and he used the time, at least in part, for rest, although every nerve and muscle was keyed to attention.  It was fully an hour later when a shot came from behind a tree much nearer to them, and a bullet cut a fragment of bark from the gigantic beech that sheltered Shif’less Sol.  There was a second report before the sound of the first had died away, and a Shawnee, uttering a smothered cry, fell forward from his shelter, and lay upon the ground, quite still.  Paul could see the brown figure, and he knew that the man was dead.

“It was Tom Ross who did that,” said Shif’less Sol.  “The savage leaned too fur forward when he fired at me, an’ exposed hisself.  Served him right fur tryin’ to hurt me.”

Then Sol, who had raised himself up a little, lay down again in his comfortable position.  He did not seem disturbed at all, but Paul kept gazing at the figure of the dead warrior.  Once more his spirit recoiled at the need of taking life.  Presently came a spatter of rifle fire—­a dozen shots, perhaps—­and bullets clipped turf and trees.  The Shawnees had crept much nearer, and were in a wide semicircle, hoping thus to uncover their foes, at least in part, and they had a little success, as one man, named Brewer, was hit in the fleshy part of the arm.

Paul saw nothing but the smoke and the flashes of fire, and he was wise enough to save his own ammunition—­he had long since learned the border maxim, never to shoot until you saw something to shoot at.

But the enemy was creeping closer, hiding among rocks and bushes, and a second and longer spatter of rifle fire began.  One man was hit badly, and then the borderers began to seek targets of their own.  Their long, slender-barreled rifles flashed again and again, and more than one bullet went straight to the mark.  The plumes of white smoke grew more numerous, united sometimes, and floated away in little clouds among the trees.

Paul saw that his comrades were firing slowly, but with terrible effect, as five or six still, brown figures now lay in the open.  Shif’less Sol, at the next tree, only four feet away, was stretched almost perfectly flat on his face on the ground, and every movement he made seemed to be slow and deliberate.  Yet no one was firing faster or with surer aim than he, and faint gleams of satisfaction showed now and then in his eyes.  Paul could not restrain speech.

“It seems to me, Sol, that you are not tired as you said you were,” he said.

“Perhaps not,” replied Sol slowly, “but I will be.”

The savages suddenly began to shout, and kept up a ferocious yelling, as if they would confuse and terrify their opponents.  The woods echoed with the din, the long-drawn, whining cry, like that of a wolf, and despite all the efforts of a strong will, Paul shuddered as he had not shuddered at the sound of the rifle fire.