In the midst of the noise and excitement a yell was heard from the forest, and then followed several scattering shots. No one paid attention to these for the minute, but soon came a yell that caused the Indians under Moon Eye to listen in consternation. It was the war-cry of the Delawares, and it told that they were about to enter the fray. “What’s that?” came from Joseph Morris. “I know what it is!” yelled Dave. His heart gave a bound. “That is White Buffalo’s war-whoop!” “White Buffalo is comin’!” came from Sam Barringford. He gave an answering cry at the top of his lungs. “I only hope he has a good followin’! We need ’em!” The band under White Buffalo was coming forward on a run, firing rapidly. With the aged chief was Henry, who had cast aside the blanket, forgetting in his excitement that he was soaked from his involuntary bath in the river. “Give it to ’em!” shouted Henry, firing a gun that had been given to him. “Shoot ’em down! They deserve it! And don’t let any of the Frenchmen get away!” The Delawares came up directly behind Moon Eye’s band, and their first volley of shots and arrows laid four of the enemy low. Then they fired once more and closed in with hunting knives and hatchets, doing fearful execution. In the midst of the slaughter was White Buffalo, his teeth set, his eyes flashing, and his whole demeanor the personification of courage and daring. Of all the whites he had ever known, the Morrises were his dearest friends, and he was more than ready to lay down his life for them. The coming of White Buffalo with his band gave fresh courage to Joseph Morris and those under him, and they renewed with vigor the fight they were making in the trading post yard. In the meantime the Indians under Moon Eye and the Frenchmen scarcely knew what to do. “The Delawares have come to give us battle!” cried one of Moon Eye’s under chiefs. “They are strong and fresh!” added another, who was sorely wounded in the leg. “We are hemmed in!” came from one of the Frenchmen. “Reinforcements for the post have arrived!” Loud yells and more shots drowned out the words spoken after that. The din became louder than ever and the smoke rolled upward from every direction. Henry was in a fierce hand-to-hand fight with one of the Indians when Benoit Vascal limped past. “Ha! It ees you!” shrieked the Frenchman, and made a lunge at Henry with his hunting knife. But at that moment White Buffalo threw his tomahawk at Vascal. The rascal received a glancing blow that stretched him senseless. Then over his body rushed some Indians, and he was, for the time being, forgotten.