That is the sort of death preferred by the prairie man--hunter, trapper, or trader--glorious to him as the cannon-furrowed field to the soldier.

That is the sort of death of which Walt Wilder spoke when he said, "Let us die, not like dogs, but as men--as Americans!" By this time the smoke had completely enveloped the waggons, the enclosed space between, and a fringe of some considerable width around them.

But a still darker ring was all around--the circle of savage horsemen, who from all sides were galloping up and dismounting to make surer work of the slaughter.

The warriors jostled one another as they pressed forward afoot, each thirsting for a scalp.
The last throe of the conflict had come.

It was no longer to be a duel at a distance--no more a contest between rifle-bullets and barbed arrows; but the close, desperate, hand-to-hand contest of pistol, knife, spear, club, and hatchet.
The ten white men--none of them yet _hors de combat_--knew well what was before them.