And as Ben Gordon looked out over the Major’s shoulder, an army of red horsemen seemed to rise out of the prairie, perhaps three-quarters of a mile distant. The line stretched far to right and to left, and every Sac brave was bent forward a little over his pony’s neck, like those that ride to the charge. Their coppery bodies glistened in the morning sunlight, and the long feathers in their hair streamed out defiantly. Some of them carried shields of buffalo hide, upon which they beat with a low, booming sound that was ominous to hear. “Steady, men! steady!” called Stillman, as some of the nearby militia began to show signs of panic. In the middle of the Indian line, Ben Gordon could now see, sat a sinewy chief on a white pony. This Indian’s appearance was wild and ferocious. Many plumes and feathers were in his hair. His face was covered with war-paint, red and black in fanciful designs, even to the nose, which was large and prominent. The head was covered with a warbonnet, a barbaric thing of vari-colored feathers, with two stubby, black buffalo horns projecting from it, at the temples. He was naked to the waist, and had a broad, blood-red scarf bound about his middle. “Black Hawk!” cried Ben. He saw the famed chief raise his hand, and then a wild cry burst from a hundred savage throats, a blood-curdling cry, so filled with hatred, ferocity and triumph that every man shuddered. Then the whole Indian line swept forward, like a moving red wall. Ben Gordon felt himself recoiling, instinctively, but he swiftly and sternly checked himself. A volunteer to his right, however, threw down his gun and ran off through the grove. The boy could see, to his amazement, out of the corner of his eye, that numerous others were doing likewise. “Ther’s thousands of ’em!” shrieked a panicky fellow, streaking to the rear. “We’ll all be skulped!” screamed another, firing his gun wildly in the air in his blind terror. “Er burnt at the stake!” a third bawled, his face distorted with fright, as he scurried away. “Stand firm!” roared Stillman, his face gray with rage and suspense, “you infernal cowards!” Ben Gordon, seething with anger, caught one of the fleeing men by the shirt collar. “Get back there!” he yelled. “Fight like a man!” “Out of the way, bub!” snarled the fellow furiously, his fearful fright giving him the strength of two, as he pushed the boy with great violence. “I’d ruther be a live coward then a dead hero.” Nearer came the red riders. The boy was fearfully excited. The little pulses in his temple were beating hard, and he saw the charging Sacs as in a red mist. It looked to him as if they must sweep all before them.