heard an alarm gun in front. Hardin did not act on the advice and made no disposition of his troops for battle. Soon after, Armstrong discovered the fires of the Indian camp—but Hardin, scorning the enemy, pushed straight on. The Indian commander—the famous Miami warrior, Little Turtle—based his plans on just such recklessness. Deep in the brush and grass on either side of the trail his dogs of war crouched silent as cougars. The army had walked well into the trap before two crimson streaks of fire flashed out in the very faces of the troopers. The militia bolted at breakneck speed—some never stopping in their flight until they reached the Ohio River. A small band of regulars under Armstrong retired slightly and held their ground temporarily; then they retreated to Harmar's camp. This savage stroke cost heavily, the Indians killing almost an average of a white man apiece—the loss, about one hundred, equalling, probably, the number of the waylaying savage force. It was one of the bloodiest ambuscades in western history. Armstrong's journal for the nineteenth reads:
