To add to his dismay, he saw that the line of white defenders was growing steadily thinner. All over the camp frenzied volunteers, beset with an unreasoning fear, were throwing themselves on their horses and galloping desperately to safety. Stillman and some of the other officers ran frantically about, exhorting the fleeing men to stand firm, even thwacking the craven fellows with flats of their swords, in short, doing their utmost to rally the panic-stricken men. All to no avail. Soon, almost the entire white force, hundreds strong, was milling about in a confused throng. Climbing posthaste on the nearest horses, they deserted their impregnable camp and fled southward in the greatest consternation, although the oncoming Sac horsemen were still upwards of a half-mile away on the open prairie to the north. Thus, out of the whole detachment of three hundred men, there presently remained in the grove only Stillman, a few of his officers, Ben Gordon, Jim Martin and the three troopers, together with about twenty of the volunteers who had stood fast, in the face of the wild Indian charge and the equally wild panic in the white camp. This pitiful remnant of the once potent white army took refuge at the northwest corner of the grove, near the creek, where the timber was thickest. The deadly muzzles of their rifles faced toward the green prairie to the north, from whence the screeching red horsemen were whirling in, like a dark storm-cloud. “Hold your fire!” cried Stillman, as a half-dozen of the volunteers started a scattering volley. The trigger of Ben’s rifle fairly burned against his finger, but he tensely awaited the command to shoot. Nearer, yet nearer, came the savage horde, and it seemed that in another minute the Indians would be upon them. “Fire!” Stillman shouted, the single, sharp word of command cracking out like the snap of a whip-lash. Thirty eager fingers pulled trigger at once. Flashes of fire rimmed the timber edge, and a cloud of smoke floated out over the lush prairie. The deadly bullets crashed into the line of whooping Sacs. Several ponies and riders went down. Three coppery bodies lay inert on the sod. Wounded horses, screaming with pain, galloped wildly about. The Sacs whooped with rage and fired back, those of them who possessed muskets. Dust and smoke mingled, and heavy with odors and vapors, drifted over the whole hectic scene. When he finally pressed the trigger, Ben aimed pointblank at a tall Sac warrior. As the rifle spat fire, he saw the warrior no more. After that he fired as fast as he could, shooting at whatever Indian was nearest. The little pulses in his head were beating harder than ever, and he fought as in a wild dream, but nevertheless he fought furiously.