The men were falling by dozens.
All the Indians, by far the most formidable part of the invading force, were through the swamp now, and, dashing down their unloaded rifles, threw themselves, tomahawk in hand, upon the defense.

Not more than two hundred of the Wyoming men were left standing, and the impact of seven or eight hundred savage warriors was so great that they were hurled back in confusion.

A wail of grief and terror came from the other side of the river, where a great body of women and children were watching the fighting.
"The battle's lost," said Shif'less Sol.
"Beyond hope of saving it," said Henry, "but, boys, we five are alive yet, and we'll do our best to help the others protect the retreat." They kept under cover, fighting as calmly as they could amid such a terrible scene, picking off warrior after warrior, saving more than one soldier ere the tomahawk fell.

Shif'less Sol took a shot at "Indian" Butler, but he was too far away, and the bullet missed him.
"I'd give five years of my life if he were fifty yards nearer," exclaimed the shiftless one.
But the invading force came in between and he did not get another shot.
There was now a terrible medley, a continuous uproar, the crashing fire of hundreds of rifles, the shouts of the Indians, and the cries of the wounded.

Over them all hovered smoke and dust, and the air was heavy, too, with the odor of burnt gunpowder.