Prisoners of Chance

"Most beautifully done, Master Benteen, and as for our red-headed preacher, by the memory of Jeanne d'Arc, the like of him as fighting man I have never seen."

I leaned back heavily against the stones, now the strain of battle had relaxed, feeling strangely weakened by my exertions as well as the loss of blood, and glanced about me. The discomfited savages had fallen sullenly back to the bank of the stream, where they bunched together as if in council, and I noted more than one wounded man among them. De Noyan sat recklessly upon the stone wall, dangling his long legs, and, back turned contemptuously upon our foe, was carefully examining the edge of his sword.

"I was fool enough to attempt a down cut," he explained, observing my eyes upon him. "I tried it on that savage who lies yonder, and it was rather a neat stroke, yet has sorely nicked the blade."

"Where is the Puritan?" I asked, not seeing him.

"Stretched yonder at rest; he did needlessly exhaust himself, not knowing how best to wield his weapon. Sacre! he struck hard blows, and will have two savages for whom to make answer in the Day of Judgment."

"What loss did the fellows sustain?" I questioned, the cut at the edge of my hair half blinding me with dripping blood.

"We dropped seven between us, counting those who fell to your fire, and there are others who hardly appear in condition for further fighting. As to the garrison, you seem to possess a flesh wound or two, the head of the Puritan rings merrily yet from the tap of a war-club, while I boast a boot full of blood; 'tis none of it serious."

"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 'Français,' 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."