Everywhere it was a combat, confused, dreadful, man to man, and with no shouting now, only the crack of the rifle shot, the whiz of the tomahawk, the thud of the knife, and choked cries.
Like breeds like, and the white men came down to the level of the red.
Knowing that they would receive no quarter they gave none.

The white face expressed all the cunning, and all the deadly animosity of the red.
Led by Henry Ware, Ross and Sol they practiced every device of forest warfare known to the Shawnees, and their line, which extended across the valley from hill to hill, spurted death from tree, bush, and rock.
To Paul Cotter it was all a nightmare, a foul dream, unreal.

He obeyed his comrade's injunctions, he lay close to the earth, and he did not fire until he could draw a bead on a bare breast, but the work became mechanical with him.

He was a high-strung lad of delicate sensibilities.
There was in his temperament something of the poet and the artist, and nothing of the soldier who fights for the sake of mere fighting.

The wilderness appealed to him, because of its glory, but the savage appealed to him not at all.