Little spurts of fire burned for a moment against the green, and then went out, to give place to others.

Jets of white smoke rose languidly and floated up among the trees, gathering by and by into a cloud, shot through with blue and yellow tints from sky and sun.
Henry Ware fired with deadly aim and reloaded with astonishing speed.
Paul Cotter, by his side, was as steady as a rock, now that the suspense was over, and the battle upon them.

The schoolmaster resting on one elbow was firing across his log.
But it is not Indian tactics to charge home, unless the enemy is frightened into flight by the war whoop and the first rush.

The men of Wareville and Marlowe did not run, but stood fast, sending the bullets straight to the mark; and suddenly the Shawnees dropped down among the trees and undergrowth, their bodies hidden, and began to creep forward, firing like sharpshooters.

It was now a test of skill, of eyesight, of hearing and of aim.
The forest on either side was filled with creeping forms, white or red, men with burning eyes seeking to slay each other, meeting in strife more terrible than that of foes who encounter each other in open conflict.
There was something snakelike in their deadly creeping, only the moving grass to tell where they passed and sometimes where both white and red died, locked fast in the grip of one another.