The other staggered, warded off lightninglike blows until one passed under his guard, and crashed dully on his head.

Then he reeled, rose again, but only to have his skull cloven by a bloody tomahawk.
The victor darted toward the whirling mass.
"Lew, shake him loose! Let him go!" yelled Jonathan Zane, swinging his bloody weapon.
High above Zane's cry, Deering's shouts and curses, Girty's shrieks of fear and fury, above the noise of wrestling bodies and dull blows, rose a deep booming roar.
It was Wetzel's awful cry of vengeance.
"Shake him loose," yelled Jonathan.
Baffled, he ran wildly around the wrestlers.

Time and time again his gory tomahawk was raised only to be lowered.

He found no opportunity to strike.

Girty's ghastly countenance gleamed at him from the whirl of legs, and arms and bodies.