The warriors bearing the log
stumbled over a dead body and went down, the great timber crushing out
another life as it fell. Again we fired, this time straight into their
faces--but there was no stopping them. A red blanket flashed back
beyond the big tree; a guttural voice shouted, its hoarse note rising
above the hellish uproar, and those demons were on their feet again,
filled with new frenzy. It was a minute--no more. With a blow that
shook the cabin, propelled by twenty strong arms, the great tree butt
struck, splintering the oak wood as though it were so much pine, and
driving a jagged hole clear through one panel. Kennedy was there,
blazing away directly into the assailants eyes, and I joined him.
Again they struck, and again, the jagged end of their battering ram
protruded through the shattered wood. We killed, but they were too
many. Once more the great butt came crashing forward, this time caving
in the entire door, bursting it back upon its hinges. In through the
opening the red mob hurled itself, reckless of death or wounds, mad
with the thirst for victory; a jam of naked beasts, crazed by the smell
of blood--a wave of slaughter, crested with brandished guns and gleam
of tomahawk.
There is nothing to remember--nothing but blows, curses, yells, the
crunch of steel on flesh, the horror of cruel eyes glowering into
yours, the clutching of fingers at your throat, the spit of fire
singeing you, the strain of combat hand to hand--the knowledge that it
is all over, except to die.
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