My father gave me a frontier maxim once, which ran, "If you must fight, strike first, and strike hard." The words flashed in my memory, and I put them to the test straightway. These prowling savages were apparently unaware of my predicament; their sole thought was with the boat floating away lakeward down the stream. At all cost, they must be blocked in any purpose of pursuit. These were the thoughts that darted through my brain like fire through stubble. How many opposed me, how desperate would be the struggle, were matters of which I did not stop to think. I could at least busy them until the fugitives were safe; after that, it was God's affair, and theirs. My rifle was wet and useless from my recent tumble; but before the group at the water's edge even saw me I was fairly upon them, striking fiercely with my gunstock, and two savages went down, shrieking from pain and surprise, before so much as a return blow reached me. It was not a noisy battle; from the outset it was too fierce and rapid for any waste of breath. Never did I need my strength of body more, nor did the long training of my father come in better play. I made that long rifle-barrel both club and sword, knife and axe in one, striking, thrusting, clubbing, in the mad fury with which desperation bids a man battle for his life. I had no thought to live, but was determined that if I went down to earth many a painted savage should lie there with me. The enshrouding darkness proved a friendly help; for as I backed in closer against the bank, I gained a fair view of my opponents, while keeping myself more hidden. Again and again they charged upon me, joined now by the others from above; but the circling iron I swung with tireless arms formed a dead-line no leaping Indian burst through alive.