“They will attack again?”

“Ay! those lads are not of the breed to let up with one bite; and mark you, man, it is going to be the next turn that will test our mettle.”

He deliberately changed his posture, glancing carelessly across his shoulder.

“Do you know aught regarding those devils, Master Benteen?”

“They are strange to me; no kin, I think, to any tribe east of the great river.”

He sat in silent contemplation a long moment, his eyes fastened upon the savage group.

“Did you chance to notice,” he asked at last, speaking more thoughtfully, “how they hissed that word ‘Francais,’ when they first rushed up the hill upon us?  It somehow recalled to memory an odd tale told me long ago by old Major Duponceau, who was out with the troops in 1729, about a strange people they warred against down on the Ocatahoola.  These must be either the same savages—­although he swore they were put to the sword—­or else of the same stock, and have felt the taste of French steel.”

“What did he call them?”

“Natchez; although I remember now he referred to them once as ’White Apples,’ saying they were of fair skin.  He told me, but I recall little of it, many a strange story of their habits and appearance, to illustrate how greatly they differed from other tribes of savages with whom he had met.  They worshipped the sun.”

“’T is true of the Creeks.”

“Ay! they play at it, but with the Natchez ’t is a real religion; they had a priesthood and altars of sacrifice, on which the fires were never quenched.  Their victims died with all the ardor of fanaticism, and in peace and war the sun was their god, ever demanding offering of blood.  But see, the moment comes when we must front those fiends again.”

The afternoon sun had lowered so that its glaring rays no longer brightened the depths of the canyon, all upon our side of the stream lying quiet in the shadow.  The Indians began their advance toward us in much the same formation as before, but more cautiously, with less noisy demonstration, permitting me to note they had slung their weapons to their backs, bearing in their hands ugly fragments of rock.  The old matted-hair savage, who had received a severe slash upon his shoulder during our last melee, hung well to the rear, contenting himself with giving encouragement to the others.

“Stand stoutly to the work, friend Cairnes,” I called across to him, feeling the heartsome sound of English speech might prove welcome.  “If we drive them this time, they will hardly seek more at our hands.”

“It will be even according to the will of the Lord of Hosts,” he returned piously.  “Yet I greatly fear lest my sword-blade be not sound within its hilt.”

“Stoop low for the volley of rocks,” commanded De Noyan, hastily, “then stand up to it with all the strength you have.”