Most of the men had fallen at the first volley, either killed or wounded.

Here and there along the all but prostrate line would be seen a struggling pair, or one of the emigrants running toward cover under a fire that always brought him low before he reached it.
On the women, too, the quick attack had been almost instantly successful.

The first great volume of mad shrieks had quickly died low as if the victims were being smothered; and now could be heard only the single scream of some woman caught in flight,--short, despairing screams, and others that seemed to be cut short--strangled at their height.
Joel Rae found himself on the line after the first volley, drawn by some dread power he could not resist.

Yet one look had been enough.

He shut his eyes to the writhing forms, the jets of flame spitting through the fog of smoke, and turned to flee.
Then in an instant--how it had come about he never knew--he was struggling with a man who shouted his name and cursed him,--a dark man with blood streaming from a wound in his throat.