Followed by a hail of shafts, Frontin and the Mohegan came bounding across to the trees, carrying a musket each. From the outer forest was ascending a din of shouts, yells, long chorused chants, pierced by the bellow of Maclish. Crawford understood that the Stone Men were working themselves up to battle fury, singing the scalp dance, preparing for one final assault. He turned to Standing Bull. “Call up your men. When the enemy come, let them take the outer breastwork, but hold the grove, falling back on the last defence. Frontin, go back to the crooked tree with the muskets. We must check them there until morning.” Hardly had he spoken, when an up-pouring yell and a whistle of shafts betrayed that the Stone Men were advancing. Now the Dacotah came darting forward to occupy the grove, and as they did so, the enemy poured into sight from the farther trees, sending a hail of shafts over the breastwork into the grove, and Crawford caught a glimpse of Maclish urging them on from the rear. Now the bows thrummed, and the long shafts sang down the level sunlight of waning afternoon. Men stumbled and died, or leaped in midair like stricken deer; but the defenders were all too few. Up to the outer barricade swept the yelling flood, paused for an instant, and then came surging over. Crawford shouted his men back, hurled his axe into the brain of the nearest Assiniboine, then went leaping for cover. Pealing up yells of triumph, the Stone Men burst across the barricade and flooded in upon the grove. There again the bowstrings twanged, and shafts whistled fiercely into naked bodies, but there was no checking this assault. Through the grove swept the Stone Men, scarcely checked by the Dacotah arrows. Crawford gained the breastwork, defending the last bit of ground around the crooked tree, and was joined there by Standing Bull and four warriors. The others were gone. No orders were needed. The Dacotah caught up fresh arrows, Frontin and Black Kettle lay with matches alight. As the grove vomited forth the oncoming Stone Men, the four last charges of powder roared out one by one, arrows flew as fast as fingers could work the strings. Smitten by this blast of death, dismayed to find a fresh barricade facing them, the Assiniboines paused, wavered, broke back abruptly to cover. The storm abruptly ceased, the bellow of Maclish quelling the arrow-flight. The sun was just sinking from sight behind the western trees. “_Habet!_” With a wild laugh, Frontin pointed to Standing Bull. The old chief quietly fell forward, with the point of an arrow emerging from his back, and was dead. “Seven of us left in all, cap’n. Hurt?” “No.” “Then I am. Come and cut out this shaft.”