Abruptly anger swelled in the girl’s heart. The braves had no right to attack Jack’s party. She had sent word to Tecumseh that it must be protected. True, Tecumseh could not yet have received her message, much less have sent word to respect it. Any Indians who were creeping upon the camp could only be a party of late recruits from Wapakoneta, bound north to join Tecumseh and the British. Nevertheless, they were acting counter to the orders that Tecumseh would surely give. Alagwa knew that her anger was illogical, but she let it flame higher and higher as she watched. If the Shawnees dared to attack---- Again she set herself to listen. She must not rouse the camp without cause. Jack would laugh at her if she were frightened so easily. No! He would not laugh! He was too kind to laugh. But he would despise her. She must remember that she was playing the man; she must show no weakness. Nothing had moved amid the tree trunks; she had only imagined it. With a sigh of relief she lowered her rifle. Simultaneously came a crash. A bullet drove the earth from the rampart into her face, filling her eyes and mouth with its spatter. Then from every tree, from every rock, forms, half naked, horrible, painted, came leaping. Bullets whistled before them, rending the tortured air. As they topped the ramparts one, wearing a woodsman’s garb, caught his foot and fell forward, sprawling; the others hurled themselves toward Jack and Cato. Alagwa did not stop to think that these were her people, her friends. Instinctively the muzzle of her rifle found the naked breast of the warrior who was springing at Jack, and instinctively she pressed the trigger. Then, heedless of the kick of the heavy rifle, and of the blinding smoke that curled from its barrel, and reckless of the pulsing bullets she threw herself forward. “Stop!” she shrieked, in the Shawnee tongue. “Stop! Tecumseh commands it.” The braves did not stop. Relentlessly they came on. One of them sprang at Cato; his tomahawk flashed in the dawn and the negro went down, sprawling upon the ground. But Jack was up now; his rifle spoke and the Indian who had felled Cato crashed across his body. As Jack turned, a whirling hatchet struck him in the chest and he staggered backward. But as the man who had thrown it whooped with triumph, Alagwa’s pistol barked and he fell. From beneath him Jack rolled to Cato’s side and caught up the rifle that had fallen from the negro’s flaccid fingers. As he renewed the spilled priming, Alagwa, weaponless, heard a shot and felt her cap fly from her head and go fluttering to the ground. Then Jack marked the man who had fired upon her and shot him down.