I joined him, striking with the butt of the pistol, feeling within me the strength of ten men, yet the very weight of them thrust us remorselessly back.

We killed and wounded, the curses of hate changed into sharp cries of agony, but those behind pressed the advance forward, and we were inevitably swept back into the light of the cabin lamp.
Then I saw faces, hideous in the glare, demonical in their expression of hatred--a mass of them, unrecognizable, largely of a wild, half-Indian type, with here and there a bearded white.

Nor were they all bare-handed; in many a grip flashed a knife, and directly fronting me, with a meat cleaver uplifted to strike, Sanchez yelled his orders.
Ignoring all others I leaped straight at him, crying to Watkins as I sprang.
"Back lad; dash out that light; I'll hold these devils here a minute!" I did---God knows how! It was like no fighting ever I had done before, a mad, furious melee, amid which I lost all consciousness of action, all guidance of thought, struggling as a wild brute, with all the reckless strength of insanity.

It is a dim, vague recollection; I am sure I felled Sanchez with one blow of my pistol-butt, stretching him apparently lifeless at my feet; in some way that deadly cleaver came into my hands and I trod on his body, swinging the sharp blade with all my might into those scowling faces.

They gave sullenly backward; they had to, yelping and snarling like a pack of wolves, hacking at me with their short knives.