The Screech-owl, locked in a death struggle with a young Mohawk, broke his arm, stabbed him, and took his scalp before I could run to his aid. And there on the ground lay four other scalps, two of white children, with the Little Red Foot painted on all. I looked down at the dead murderer. He was a handsome boy, not twenty, and wore a white mask of war paint and two bars of scarlet on his chin, I thought--then realized that they were two thick streaks of running blood. "May his clan bewail him!" shouted the burly Screech-owl. "Let the Mohawk women mourn their dead who died this day at West River! The Oneida mock them! Koué!" And his terrific scalp-yell pierced the racket of the rifles. I heard a gruffling sound and thick breathing from behind a pine, where the Water-snake was scalping one of the tree-cat scouts--grunting and panting as he tugged at the tough and shaven skin, which he had grasped in his teeth, plying his knife at the same time because the circular incision had not been continuous. Suddenly I felt sick, and leaned against a tree, fighting nausea and a great dizziness. And was aware of an arm around my shoulder. Whereupon I straightened up and saw the little maid of Askalege beside me, looking at me very strangely. At the same instant I heard a great roaring and cursing and a crash among the river-side willows, and was horrified to see Nick down on his back a-clawing and tearing and cuffing a Mohawk warrior, who was clinging to him and striving to use his hatchet. We made but a dozen leaps of it, Thiohero and I, and were in a wasp-nest of Mohawks ere we knew it. I heard Nick roar again with pain and fury, but had my hands too full to succor him, for a wild beast painted yellow was choking me and wrestling me off my feet, and little Thiohero was fighting like a demon with her knife, on the water's edge. The naked warrior I clutched was so vilely oiled that my fingers slipped over him as though it were an eel I plucked at, and his foul and stinking breath in my face was like a full fed bear's. Then, as he strangled me, out of darkening eyes I saw his arm lifted--glimpsed the hatchet's sparkle--saw an arm seize his, saw a broad knife pass into his belly as though it had been butter--pass thrice, slowly, ripping upward so that he stood there, already gralloched, yet still breathing horribly and no bowels in him.... His falling hatchet clinked among the stones. Then he sank like a stricken bull, bellowed, and died. And, as he fell, I heard my Saguenay gabbling, "Brother! brother!" in my ears, and felt his hand timidly seeking mine. Breath came back, and eyesight, too, in time to see Nick and his Mohawk enemy on their feet again, and the Indian strike my comrade with clubbed rifle, turn, and dart into the willows. My God, what a crack! And down went Nick, like a felled pine in the thicket.