CHAPTER XXV
AGAINST FEARFUL ODDS
Donald seized his opportunity, and stood up to his full height,
exposing his head and shoulders.
“Seguis,” he said, “you're covered. I've come back with my men,
and taken possession of your furs. I call upon you to surrender.”
Though a hundred yards away, the amazement depicted on the
half-breed's face was apparent. The men behind the barricade had
thrust the long, black barrels of their guns through loopholes left
for that purpose, and trained them upon the disorganized free-traders.
For a tense minute, there was no reply. Then, Seguis spoke.
“Let me talk a moment with my men, will you?” he asked.
“I'll give you five minutes by the clock.” Donald drew out the
queer gold watch that was an heirloom, and held it in his hand
while the seconds ticked away. Seguis talked rapidly to his followers.
“Time's up!” Donald snapped at last, shoving the watch back into
the fur-lined pocket of his jacket. “What are you going to do?
Will you put down your arms peaceably, or shall I fire?”
“Fire and be hanged!” was the instant reply, as Seguis raised his
own gun.
Instantly, the ten rifles behind the barricade barked as one. But,
in the same second, as though by preconcerted signal, the forty
men at the edge of the forest dropped flat on the snow, and the
bullets whistled over them. The next moment, they had leaped to
their feet, and scrambled into the shelter of trees and brush.
“Well, boys, we're in for it now,” said Donald cheerfully, happier
now that battle offered than he had been for many weeks. “They've
got us at a disadvantage, and the odds are four to one, so every
shot must count.”
“Right-o!” rejoined Timmins, and fell to whistling through his back
teeth, a sure sign with him of complete satisfaction.
Then began a grilling wait. Occasionally, a dark form would appear
among the trees, speeding from shelter to shelter, and the guns of
the besieged would ring out sharply into the still air. More than
once, the bullets went home, and the runner leaped into the air
with a yell, and rolled over and over upon the snow.
“They're surrounding us,” said Donald calmly. “I hate to do it,
but we'll have to use these furs after all, and a fur with a bullet
hole in it isn't worth anything.”
He called for volunteers to help him arrange the protection, and,
when everyone spoke, told off alternate men to keep the enemy
covered while the others worked. The bales of pelts were frozen
into the rigidity of iron, and would form an excellent defense,
but they were not now in the proper position for this. It was
necessary for the men to crawl out over the low line that lay to
their rear, and lift other bales back into the “trench” that was
formed by the log barricade.
The free-traders in the woods were aware of this necessity for
exposure, and waited until a man started on his venturesome journey.
Then, they all blazed away at once. McTavish was the first to expose
himself. He returned with a bullet hole in his cap, and minus a
generous share of one boot-heel. Then, strategy was resorted to.
A man would make a feint of rushing from cover. Instantly, the
heads of the men in the woods would appear, lying along their
gun-barrels, and, in the same instant, the bullets from the barricade
would fly thick. After one such feint, three of the enemy did not
reappear, and then the foe began to grow cautious, never knowing
when the appearance of a head out of the trench meant a feint or
an expedition.
It was impossible that such hazardous work should not have tragic
results. Trip after trip, Donald made without harm, but his men
were not so fortunate. One was killed outright, and another, game
to the last, threw himself back among his companions, coughing
blood from a bullet hole in the lung, but with two bales of fur in
his hands.
The free-traders, by this time, had almost completed their circle,
and could fire upon the besieged from every side except that which
led down to the lake. Consequently, Donald was forced to cover
every direction at once, and could not concentrate more than two
rifles upon any one point. Presently, the firing from the woods
became hotter, and the Hudson Bay leader, recognizing the symptoms,
crawled back and forth in the narrow trench, speaking to his men.
“They're probably going to try and carry our position with a charge.
Shoot to kill, but don't shoot one man—Charley Seguis.”
“But, Captain, he's the ringleader,” cried Timmins, annoyed. “If
you finish him, the rest of 'em will go to the four winds.”
“I know it,” replied McTavish, “but I must still ask you to spare
him. You remember, he saved my life once, although he didn't mean
to, and, besides, I have other and better reasons for asking this:
reasons that I can't tell you now. In time, you'll all know—if we
can get out of this thing alive.”
“Oh, pshaw! We'll get out of it alive all right,” drawled Buxton.
The man had Yankee blood in him somewhere, for now he was chewing
tobacco industriously, and staining the snow in front of the
barricade, where a loophole between the logs offered him opportunity
for marksmanship of varying sorts.
“Here's hoping, boys,” was Donald's rejoinder. “Now, their plan
will probably be this: A stiff fire will suddenly be poured in from
one quarter to draw our attention there. At the same time, a charge
will start from the opposite side, and be upon us before we know
it. Watch for it!”
He had hardly got the words out of his mouth, when there was a
sudden, fierce volley from the point just back of the black spot
where once the warehouse had stood. The men in the trench crouched
low.
“Watch that firing, Timmins and Cameron,” was the order. “The rest
face the other way.”
The seven fighting men left, swung around, and, in a minute, saw
thirty trees suddenly give birth to thirty gray, swift-moving men,
who, with guns swinging loosely in their hands swooped down the
declivity at alarming speed. Seguis, tall and lithe, led them.
“Fire!” Five of the charging trappers sprawled forward, their arms
outstretched, guns flying, and snowshoes plowing the loose snow
that covered the surface.
“Fire!” One rifle only responded now: the hammers of the others
clicked sharply in unison, but there was no explosion.
Nevertheless, the charge broke into precipitate retreat.
“What's the matter there, boys?”
“Ca'tridges no blame good!” drawled Buxton, trying vainly to stanch
the flow of blood where one of his fingers had been carried away.
“Prob'ly they're center-fire ca'tridges for rim-fire guns, or
vicy-versy.”
McTavish clenched his teeth.
“I might have known it,” he said. “These rebels have collected all
the old ammunition they could find and stored it here. Some of 'em
have guns made in 1850, I guess.”
Meanwhile, a rapid examination was being made. Buxton was right.
While the rifles were center-fire, a great many of the cartridges
were rim-fire, and consequently useless unless broken and the powder
and ball rammed home as in the old muzzle-loaders. There were,
however, among the little mounds of cartridges, many that would
fit the guns, and these were sorted with desperate energy in the
lull that followed the fighting.
Presently, one of the free-traders, with a piece of blanket tied
about his rifle-barrel, appeared in the foreground. The besieged,
realizing the spirit in which the sign was offered, agreed that it
once might have represented a white flag.
“What do you want?” inquired Donald.
“Want to pick up our dead and wounded.”
“Go ahead. Are you ready to talk surrender yet? I can offer you
every consideration, if you don't go on with your tactics.”
“Quit wasting time, McTavish,” cried Seguis, suddenly appearing
beside his standard-bearer. “We won't surrender—ever! We want
that fort, and we're going to have it. If you get out now, we won't
hurt you. If you keep this thing up, I can't promise anything. My
Indians here are getting a little excited.”
“All right, if that's the way you feel about it,” Donald retorted.
“Turn 'em loose. Say! Pick up your men if you want to, but only
two men on the field at once. Number three gets a bullet.”
“All right.”
A moment later, a couple of trappers, unarmed, walked out upon the
declivity, and began to haul their dead and wounded comrades back
into shelter. During the lull, the besieged filled their belts
with what good ammunition there was—ten rounds per man. Bill
Thompson wagged his beard sagely over the lamentable situation they
now faced, and remarked that it reminded him of a time when he—
“Quick!” rang Donald's alarmed voice. “Through the logs! Fire!”
Without a word, the men, realizing instinctively what had occurred,
shoved the noses of their guns through the loopholes and fired
pointblank, without aiming, at the band of men that had stealthily
crept upon them from behind while the truce negotiations had been
going on.
They were barely thirty yards away, and coming fast, but the
withering hail of lead that greeted them crumpled their front line
as though it were made of paper. The others, unable to see their
assailants, wavered a minute, and then broke, with the exception
of one man.
“Hold your fire!” was the order, and the fleeing trappers gained
the woods unmolested.
Not so the brave Indian who came on. There was nothing of retreat
in his make-up. He had started to charge the fort, and take it.
The fort was still untaken, and he was still alive—two things that
seemed utterly incongruous to his mind.
“Don't fire,” said McTavish.
On the man came, amid absolute silence. He was at the wall of the
fort when suddenly Donald rose to his full height, flung up both
arms, and yelled at the top of his voice—the familiar manner of
stopping a pursuing wild animal. The Indian, instinctively taken
aback, halted, and Donald reached over and drew the gun out of the
unresisting hand, while a roar of laughter went up. This was too
much for the brave, who, with a fearful curse, drew his knife, and
cleared the fort wall at a bound. But he died in mid air, for
Donald, quicker than he, had swung the man's own musket by the
barrel, and brought it down with all his strength upon the fur-covered
head. Instantly, a howl went up from the forest, followed by a
volley, which McTavish avoided by the speed of his drop into the
trench. But others who had been watching were careless, and did
not fare so well. Two of the men, one of them old Bill Thompson,
dropped dead in their tracks. The man who had been badly wounded
in the first fatalities was now out of his misery, and there remained
but seven to guard the furs, and the honor of the Hudson Bay Company.
The snow inside the barricade was stained with blood.
But there was no time now to sentimentalize. The dead were passed
along from hand to hand and piled at one end, the brave Indian
among them. Buxton had lost considerable blood, but he was cheerful,
and Timmins whistled continually. Another man had a ball in his
left shoulder, and a third had had his cheek grazed.
Of the free-traders it was impossible to say how many were dead or
wounded; Donald, after a moment's careful reckoning, felt sure that
more than a third of them, if not half, had felt lead.
Now however, Seguis changed his tactics. The next charge came from
three points at once, and Donald met it as best he could with three
volleys—one at seventy-five yards, another at forty, and a third
at ten—when the dark, frenzied faces and flashing eyes of the
free-traders were so close that the streaks of yellow flame seemed
to shoot out and touch them. The loss was heavy on both sides, and
for the first time inside the barricade demoralization reigned.
Had the attackers possessed the one necessary extra ounce of heroism,
and pressed on to the goal, they could have won it.
Donald himself went down with the shock of a bullet that broke his
left arm; two others of his men, who had stood up in the moment of
excitement, were dead, and two others severely wounded. Only the
unconcerned Timmins had passed through the ordeal unscathed.
“Water! Heavens, I wish I had some water!” grunted Buxton.
“Say, Tim,” called one of the wounded men, “prop me up in front of
this hole, and I'll show 'em I'm good yet.”
“Same here,” said the other, weakly.
Timmins went back and forth between them, doing what they wished,
and loading their guns. Donald, grinning with the pain of his arm,
managed to reload his rifle with his right hand. Buxton, swearing
softly to himself, accomplished a like feat.
“For heaven's sake, Cap, let me wing Seguis this time, won't you?”
begged Timmins.
“Wing him, yes, but don't kill him. I've got a 'few things I want
to straighten out with him, if we ever get out of here alive, and
I don't want him dead when I do it, either.”
“All right. Look out! Here they come! They must want this place
mighty bad to keep this up.”
Only fifteen men answered Seguis's yell this time, and they did
not seem over enthusiastic. But they swept down the little hill
swiftly, scattered wide apart.
“Shoot slow and sure,” warned Donald, and a moment later one and
another of the attackers began to drop or waver in their tracks.
But they came on.
Seguis threw up his arms, and stopped short. Then, he recovered
himself, and fought his way onward.
Inside the barricade, Timmins rolled over with a little sigh, and
lay still. The logs, chipped and torn by many bullets, were now
like a sieve, and one after another of the defenders released his
gun, and lay still, or struggled in death throes. Only Buxton and
McTavish continued to fire.
This time the wave of advance reached its high mark at the very
logs of the fort, and Seguis, with a wild yell, swung his gun with
one hand, and leaped. Donald and Buxton struggled up to meet the
attack, swearing like madmen; but, just at that moment, unseen by
all of them, a line of men appeared at the edge of the woods, knelt
quickly, and let loose a volley that laid the attackers low.
Followed an uncanny stillness, which was broken only by the horrid
sounds of the wounded and dying. Then, down the little declivity
broke fifty men, cheering wildly, and a minute later the Hudson
Bay Company took possession of its own. They found McTavish and
Buxton pale and open-mouthed, regarding their arrival with blank
faces. Behind them, the trench was a shambles. Before the barricade,
Seguis sat dazedly, one leg pierced, and an arm helpless because
of Timmins's bullet in his shoulder. One or two others rested on
their elbows, half-conscious.
The newcomers spoke to McTavish, but he did not seem to hear them:
his gaze was riveted on something that had started down the incline.
He saw a team of six magnificent dogs, dragging a polished cariole
of wonderful workmanship. It was piled with furs, and from the
curled enamel lip two little staffs arose, and on them fluttered
the red flag of the Hudson Bay Company. Among the furs sat a man
with a gray mustache and piercing blue eyes.
“Father!” cried Donald, and fell forward unconscious across the
bullet-splintered logs.
