Without waiting to reload his rifle, Boone picked the boy up in his arms and resumed the road to the river. They were nearing the bank when three Indians came down upon them. One of these Hardy disposed of when they were within twenty yards, but the other two continued to advance. They were extremely big men and unusually courageous. Armed only with their tomahawks they rushed upon the whites without faltering. Boone laid the boy upon the ground. His form was convulsed in the agonies of death. As the father rose erect his face was calm and his lips close-set, but a tempest raged in his heart. Hardy stood transfixed by the awful gleam of the eyes. Thus he had never seen the man before, nor ever did again. Boone drew his tomahawk and turned on the savages, who were now almost within arm’s length. He sprang at them like a panther robbed of its whelps. His weapon whizzed through the air and buried itself in the skull of the foremost. Springing aside he avoided a blow from the tomahawk of the second savage, and the next instant gripped his throat and bore him to the ground. [Illustration: HIS WEAPON WHIZZED THROUGH THE AIR AND BURIED ITSELF IN THE SKULL OF THE FOREMOST] Hardy ran to the spot and raised his tomahawk but, as he was about to strike, Boone glanced up, and at his look Hardy dropped his arm. The Indian was a powerful man, but in the hands of the grief-stricken father he was as a child. Boone struck the savage’s head upon the rocks until he was stunned, and then drew his knife and plunged it into his heart. This whirlwind combat had occupied less time than it takes to tell, but when Boone turned again to his son the boy was dead. The father looked around. From three directions new enemies were approaching. There was nothing for it but to leave Israel’s body to be mutilated by the savages. Together, Boone and Hardy gained the bank and, plunging into the river, succeeded in reaching the other side in safety. They were almost the last to leave the battle-field, and by the time they landed upon the south side of the Licking the expiring flames of the fatal fight were flickering out. Half of the force that rashly pursued Girty’s warriors lay dead upon the peninsula or at the ford. There the carnage had been fearful and would have been much worse but for the presence of mind of a man named Netherland, who on a former occasion had been taxed by his companions with cowardice. With twelve or fifteen other horsemen, Netherland crossed the river. The others were about to consult their own safety by riding off, when Netherland called upon them to halt and protect their comrades by firing upon the Indians. They did so, with the result of enabling many to escape who would otherwise have been slain.