Master Bartlett, who should be a judge in such matters, declares that never one of us flinched from his duty; but I could speak only of what occurred as I myself took part in it, and it seemed as if we were favored by God, else the enemy must literally have overrun us. There were times during the battle when it was possible for us to reload our weapons; but before twenty minutes had passed, my gun was so foul that I could not drive a bullet home, and was forced to depend upon the weapon as a club, or use my knife. And yet we drove those human wolves back from whence they came, all save eight, who remained inside the stockade with no breath of life in their ugly bodies. I have always maintained that an Indian is a coward who can fight well only when his adversary has been taken by surprise, or is too feeble for resistance. So it was here. During half an hour, mayhap, they fought like the wolves that they are, and then, as one after another was cut down, the remainder of them turned tail, striving to make their way out, and we did our best to lessen the number of John Butler’s followers. One there was who showed himself courageous, despite the fact that he battled in a wicked cause, and, when we pressed him hard, stood with his back against the logs, fighting until he fell dead. The others were as curs. Not until the last of the horde who could move had escaped did we count up our losses, and grievous they were as compared with our numbers. Ezra Simpson lay dead across the body of a stalwart Indian, with evidences enough near by to show that he had left his mark upon more than one of those who would turn our peaceful valley into a shambles. Two of the company were seriously wounded, and three others, including myself, bore marks of either knife or hatchet, but not to such an extent that we were disabled. It was a victory for us; but should we win two or three more in the same manner, then were we undone for a verity, because of being wiped out entirely. It goes without saying that Master Bartlett did valiant duty. Two others, besides myself, owed their lives to him, for it was as if he saw all that was going on, and wherever the battle raged hottest he sought to aid him who was hardest pressed. Without the old man, I fear there would have been a different ending to this poor tale. There was no rest for us when the battle had come to an end. Those whose turn it was to sleep threw themselves down on the floor of the blockhouse, and the rest of us did duty on the walls, all save five, who were told off to drag out through the small gate, even at risk of being shot down, the dead bodies of our enemies. That done, we buried Ezra Simpson hurriedly but reverentially, and perchance the tears which flowed from our eyes were caused by the knowledge that our time of greater suffering was yet to come, while they had done with the agony of death.