He dragged Paul down, and in an instant all of them turned their full energy to the defense.  The attack upon them was renewed with uncommon fire and fury.  The Indians and desperadoes wished to pass that particular neck of land in order that they might pour a storm of bullets upon the crippled fleet and the skirmishers who were yet coming in; but the little band, headed by Henry Ware, still held them back.

Henry looked once or twice toward the river and saw the boats hovering far out in the stream.  He judged that, in the darkness and confusion, Adam Colfax no longer knew where the Kentuckians lay, and it was even possible that he might lose them entirely; but the fact did not shake Henry’s resolve.  It was vital that they should hold the neck, and he intended to do it.  He and his comrades, lying close together, replied rapidly and with deadly aim to the fire in front of them, forming a compact little body, with blazing rifles, which the savage army was not yet able to displace.

The night darkened, there were signs of rain, induced perhaps, by so much firing; the moon was completely hidden by gathering clouds; the river became a black, flowing mass and the boats upon it blurred with its surface, save when they leaped into the light in the blaze of a cannon shot.  The woods, too, seemed a solid, black wall, along the front of which rifle shots sparkled in clusters.

“Good boys! good boys!” exclaimed Henry in low tones, surcharged with excitement.  He, too, had the mounting blood hot in his brain.  All the old primeval passion was flaming in him.  But the fire of the enemy converged nearer and nearer, and the bullets sang a ceaseless little song in his ears as they passed.  “Ah!” he exclaimed as one struck him in the arm.  But that was all he said.  He went on with his loading and firing.

“Are you hit, Henry?” asked Shif’less Sol.

“A scratch!  Nothing more!  Look how Long Jim fights!”

Long Jim was almost flat upon his face, but the man, usually so mild and good tempered, was now wholly possessed by the rage of combat.  His long thin figure fitted around the sinuosities of the earth, and he seemed to have a curious gliding motion, sliding forward slowly to meet the enemy.  The darkness was nothing now to his accustomed eyes, and he sent his bullets with sure aim toward the shadowy forms in the bushes in front of them.

Long Jim forgot everything now but his rifle and the enemy there in the thicket.  He slid further and further, still drawing himself over the ground in that terrible semblance of a serpent.  Paul, seeing his face, was frightened.  “Jim!  Jim!” he cried.  “Stop!” But Long Jim slid slowly on.  Tom Ross said something, but it was lost in the whistling of a cannon shot overhead.

They saw Long Jim stop the next moment, and Paul believed that he heard him utter a little sigh.  Long Jim’s limbs contracted and straightened out again with a jerk.  Then he turned slowly over on his side and lay still, a moment or two, after which he began to writhe violently.  At the same time he clapped his hand to his head and it came back red.