Nearly all were wounded.

Hideous and painted they were, with savage eyes filled with rage and disappointment, and the looks they gave Paul made him consider himself as one dead.
As the moon cleared, more warriors drifted back into the glade.

Some of these, too, bore wounds, and Paul's heart leaped up with fierce joy as he saw that they had been defeated.

The firing had ceased and the wilderness was returning to silence, broken only by the low words of the savages and the soft sound of their moccasins on the earth.
Paul was still in a sort of daze.

The warriors were grouped about him, their sole visible trophy of the battle, and they regarded him with vengeful eyes.