Then, with one wild shout, the dismounted troopers leaped to the rescue, hurling back the disorganized Indian mass, and dragging their comrades from the rout.

It was hand to hand, clubbed carbine against knife and spear, a fierce, breathless struggle.

Behind eager hands ripped open the ammunition cases; cartridges were jammed into empty guns, and a second line of fighting men leaped forward, their front tipped with fire.
Dragged from his horse at the first fierce shock, his revolver empty, his broken sabre a jagged piece of steel, Hamlin hacked his way through the first line of warriors, and found refuge behind a dead horse.
Here, with two others, he made a stand, gripping a carbine.

It was all the work of a moment.

About him were skurrying figures, infuriated faces, threatening weapons, yells of agony, cries of rage.