St. Luc’s sentinels and skirmishers were driven back in a minute or two, many of them falling, but his main force lay along a low ridge, timbered well, and from its shelter his men, French and Indians, sent in a rapid fire.  Although taken by surprise and suffering severely in the first rush, they were able to stem the onset of the rangers and Mohawks, and soon they were uttering fierce and defiant cries, while their bullets came in showers.  The rangers and Mohawks also took to cover, and the battle of the night and the wilderness was on.

Robert pulled Tayoga down, and the two lay behind a fallen log, where they listened to the whining of an occasional bullet over their heads.

“We may win,” said the Onondaga gravely, “but we will not win so easily.  One cannot surprise Sharp Sword (St. Luc) wholly.  You may attack when he is not expecting it, but even then he will make ready for you.”

“That’s true,” said Robert, and he felt a curious and contradictory thrill of pleasure as he listened to Tayoga.  “It’s not possible to take the Chevalier in a trap.”

“No, Dagaeoga, it is not.  I wish, for the sake of our success, that some other than he was the leader of the enemy, but Manitou has willed that my wish should not come true.  Do you not think the dark shadow passing just then on the ridge was Tandakora?”

“The size indicated to me the Ojibway, and I was about to seize my rifle and fire, but it’s too far for a shot with any certainty.  I think our men on the horns of the crescent are driving them in somewhat.”

“The shifting of the firing would prove that it is so, Dagaeoga.  Our sharpshooting is much better than theirs, and in time we will push them down to the lake.  But look at Black Rifle!  See how he craves the battle!”

The swart ranger, lying almost flat on the ground, was creeping forward, inch by inch, and as Robert glanced at him he fired, a savage in the opposing force uttering his death yell.  The ranger uttered a shout of triumph, and, shifting his position, sought another shot, his dark body drawn among the leaves and grass like that of some fierce wild animal.  He fired a second time, repeated his triumphant shout and then his sliding body passed out of sight among the bushes.

Both Rogers and Willet soon joined Robert and Tayoga behind the logs where they had a good position from which to direct the battle, but Daganoweda on the right, with all of his Mohawks, was pushing forward steadily and would soon be able to pour a flanking fire into St. Luc’s little army.  The forest resounded now with the sharp reports of the rifles and the shouts and yells of the combatants.  Bullets cut leaves and twigs, but the rangers and the Mohawks were advancing.

“Do you know how many men we have lost, Rogers?” asked Willet.

“Three of the white men and four of the Mohawks have been slain, Dave, but we’re winning a success, and it’s not too high a price to pay in war.  If Daganoweda can get far enough around on their left flank we’ll drive ’em into the lake, sure.  Ah, there go the rifles of the Mohawks and they’re farther forward than ever.  That Mohawk chief is a bold fighter, crafty and full of fire.”