Badly stung, the Sacs forthwith abandoned the low hills and dropped back into the tall grass of the valley; where, after a half-hour of indecisive firing on both sides, another assault was ordered. “Give them the bayonet, men!” roared General Henry, brandishing his long sword. Dodge’s dare-devil rangers and about two hundred of the volunteers rushed over the hill and down the green slope, their bayonets gleaming wickedly, while their shrill cries of vengeance made the glade fairly echo. The cowed Sacs broke from the grass like frightened antelope, to the rising side of the bluff beyond. “We’ve got ’em on the run!” screamed an elated ranger. “Keep ’em goin’!” howled a volunteer, trying to reload his piece as he fought his way through the head-high grass. A second rank of savages was attempting to form on the ridge, but so furious was the charge of the triumphant whites that the red line broke completely, while the troopers were still twenty rods away. With hardly a shot fired, the panicky warriors swiftly retreated down the bluff, intent on joining their main body which was now starting to cross the river. By this time it was raining so hard that it was virtually impossible to keep the muskets dry. Furthermore, at the far side of the bluff there was swampy terrain some hundred yards in width, and then a heavy fringe of timber on a strip of firm ground along the river bank at the ford. The last of the fleeing Indians had now spanned the marsh and reached this refuge; so it was deemed best to call off the pursuit for the night. “It’d be suicide to cross that marsh in the face of musket fire from the timber,” asserted General Henry. “I fear so, General,” Dodge reluctantly agreed, “but I only wish we had a brass twelve-pounder with us. We’d drive the red imps out of that cover in jig time.” During the night after the battle there were frequent alarms from prowling Indians, and the troopers, fearing an attack, were under arms nearly the entire time. About an hour and a half before dawn, a loud, shrill voice was heard from the direction of the river bank. There was great commotion in the white camp for a time, for it was thought that the savage leader was issuing orders for a sortie. “Ne-a-pope!” exclaimed Bright Star, identifying the owner of the mysterious voice. “What in blazes is he saying?” demanded Ben Gordon. “Ne-a-pope say pale-faces should run away,” translated the Pottawattomee. “He might as well save his breath,” remarked Tom. “Otherwise,” went on Bright Star, “Ne-a-pope say Sacs will boil pale-face alive.” “He’s cracked in the dome,” snorted Ben, “if he thinks he can scare us with that twaddle.” “He’s too wise a coot to think that,” Bill Brown averred. “Then why’s he doing it, Bill?” wondered Tom. “To mislead us, keep us thinkin’ that the Sacs are still there in the timber.” “Well, aren’t they?” exploded Tom.