The leader of the settlers now took command; and no more gallant fellow than this half-breed ever lived. He kept his men to their frightful task with the most desperate resolution. So bitter was the defense of the settlers and soldiers that the Indians, a great number of them dead under the walls, slackened in their attack. With what booty they could lay hands on they fell back before the terrible rifles. But their leader was another half-breed, Weatherford, the dreaded “Red Warrior” of the Creeks. Upon the back of a great charger, garbed in all the barbaric splendor of a savage chief, he dashed among his scattering bands. His great voice lifted like a trumpet, burning them with his scorn. “Are the Muscogees men, or children?” he cried. “Have they the hearts of warriors, or of rabbits? You have asked to be led against the foe; he is before you. Shall your children say their fathers turned their backs upon the paleface? Or will you be able to show by the scalps upon your lodge pole that when your chief called you braves he did not lie?” Lashed to fury by the scorn of the Red Warrior, the Creeks returned to the assault. Burning arrows were discharged, and soon the buildings behind the second defense were destroyed. The gates were broken in; the settlers now fought penned up in houses which were burning over their heads. Soon all were dead save a party which had closed itself up in a bastion at the north of the fort; these fought doggedly under the courageous direction of their captain, Dixon Bailey. But nothing could withstand the overwhelming strength of the Indians; they stormed the bastion, and in spite of the protests and commands of Weatherford, began their dreadful work of death once more. In a frenzy of strength some of the troopers broke apart the stakes which formed the outer wall of the bastion. About a half score escaped by this means, among them being the gallant Dixon Bailey. But it was not the fate of this fine fellow to escape with his life; he was bleeding from a half dozen wounds and died a few hundred yards from the doomed fort. Broken and breathless, the remainder of the little party ran on; a band of Creeks had noted their escape and were in swift pursuit; the whites had about given up hope when they heard a loud “Hello” far ahead. Amazed, they saw in a fringe of woods two white boys and a friendly Indian, well mounted--and holding a number of Indian ponies by their bridles. “This way,” shouted one of the lads, a bronzed, bold-faced fellow. “We have mounts for you all, borrowed from the Creeks. Quick now!” And while the fight-worn men were straining their pounding hearts for just a little more speed, Jack and Frank threw up their long rifles; like whips they cracked and two bronzed warriors tumbled forward. Then Running Elk’s bow sang its song of death and a third went to join his comrades.