There were two lines of fire facing each other in the dark wood.

The flashes showed red or yellow in the twilight or the falling rain, and the Indian yell of triumph whenever it arose, echoed, weird and terrible, through the dripping forest.
Henry stole to the side of his father.
"We must fall back," he said, "or in the darkness or the night, they will be sure to surround us and crush us." Ross was an able second to this advice, and reluctantly Mr.Ware passed along the word to retreat.

"Be sure to bring off all the wounded," was the order.

"The dead, alas! must be abandoned to nameless indignities!" The little white army left thirty dead in the dripping forest, and, as many more carried wounds, the most of which were curable, but it was as full of fight as ever.

It merely drew back to protect itself against being flanked in the forest, and the faces of the borderers, sullen and determined, were still turned to the enemy.
Yet the line of fire was visibly retreating, and, when the Shawnee forces saw it, a triumphant yell was poured from hundreds of throats.
They rushed forward, only to be driven back again by the hail of bullets, and Ross said to Mr.Ware: "I guess we burned their faces then." "Look to the wounded! look to the wounded!" repeated Mr.Ware.