We were possibly a hundred yards from the southern front of the
stockade, when I glanced forward and saw the level ground between a
seething mass of savage forms, so densely wedged together as to block
further progress. I could see hundreds of brown sinewy arms uplifted
from a sea of faces to brandish weapons of every description, and
marked how the Miamis cowered like whipped curs behind the protection
of Wells's horse, while close beside him stood Jordan, erect and silent
as it on parade, a rifle grasped in his hands, his head bare, a great
welt showing redly across his white forehead.

A little party, hardly more than twenty infantry-men, marched steadily
out from the open gateway of the Fort. The first file bore bayonets
fixed upon their guns, and the naked savages fell slowly back before
the polished steel. It was smartly done, and it thrilled my blood to
note with what silent determination that small band of disciplined men
pressed their way onward, passing through the threatening mass of
redskins as indifferently as if they had been forest trees. A young,
smooth-faced fellow, wearing a new officer's uniform, led them, sword
in hand, a smile of light contempt upon his lips.

"Clear the space wider, Campbell!" he said sternly, to the big corporal
at his side. "Swing your files to left and right, and push the rabble
out of the way."

They did it with the butts of their guns, laughing at the brandished
knives and tomahawks and the fierce painted faces that scowled at them,
paying no apparent heed to the taunts and insults showered from every
side. There were some stones thrown, a few blows were struck, but no
rifle-shot broke the brief struggle. The young officer strode forward