A ringing cheer was the only reply, and the men broke up into knots, canvassing the chances of meeting with the murderers soon. The brigade altogether numbered about seventy men, far less in number than the band of Velveteens, but every man was a dead shot, brave as a lion, and knew the country by heart. Like all trapper bands they were composed of a sprinkling of all nationalities—chiefly, however, of American birth. From the gray-haired mountaineer of sixty years to beardless boys scarcely twenty, but upon whose youthful faces the wild life of the border had set its mark. Massy and Pat Dada stole out of the camp, and as night came on Dave set his guards and took precautions which the others had neglected, and which had resulted so fatally. He felt tolerable certain that the calamities which had fallen upon them could be laid only to the blame of Velveteens and Rafe Norris, but was not sure.
Scarcely had the sun gone down, when the moon rolled up in the sky and shed a mellow radiance on the scene. Dave made the circuit of the pickets about the edge of the strip of timber in which the camp was made, when he noticed, out upon the plain, a sort of wavering which rested on the grass and seemed to move slowly up. These black spots whatever they were puzzled him extremely, and he called the attention of the guard to them.
“I’ve hed my eye on those spots for the last ten minnits,” replied the man, “and I’ll be cussed if I can make ’em out. What was that?”
Both had caught the gleam of some metallic substance in the moonlight. Dave uttered a low exclamation, and caught the guard by the arm.
“There they come, by heaven! Stand firm now, and don’t fire unless they make a rush.”
Dave was right, for those dark shadows creeping up so slowly were the forms of their enemies gathering for a rush upon the camp. They were crawling along the short prairie grass, shading themselves as much as possible behind the hummocks, and getting as near as was safe to the line of woods before the rush was made. Velveteens was there, crouching upon the sod, and nursing in his heart the most bitter hatred of all who were dear to Myrtle. There, too, crouched the two men who had been flogged by the borderers, crouching like tigers ready for the spring, each man with a rifle in his grasp and his revolvers in the belt. Mixed with these were their red allies, the Modoc Sioux, eager for scalps, and caring but little from whom those scalps were taken. It seemed impossible that the trappers could withstand the rush of this powerful body.
Hark! They are gathering for the rush now, and weapons are tightly grasped as the whispered word of command goes down the line. The signal will be a shot from a rifle, and Velveteens is to give it. Rising slowly to his knees, he brought the deadly rifle to his shoulder, and pointed it at the motionless form of the guard who was talking with Dave Farrell, but, as the rifle came to a level, the man glided suddenly behind a tree, and Velveteens lowered the weapon in surprise.
“Lucky fur ye, my man,” he muttered. “Thar; come on!”
The rifle cracked, and the bullet was buried in the tree behind which the guard was stationed, and the band rushed forward like leaping grayhounds. But, the rifle-shot seemed to be a signal to the others, and the whole front of the strip of woods is in a blaze, so rapid is the discharge of rifles about it. The trappers have not been caught napping, and the tables are turned upon the assailants who go down, man by man, fearfully decimated by the deadly fire. Prairie men do not waste bullets. They take deadly aim, and generally speaking the man drops at whom the ball is sped, and when the band of outlaws reached the woods, nearly one third of their number were beyond the reach of human aid. They stood in the moonlight, exposed to that dreadful fire, while the trappers were covered by trees. No wonder the British crew were rent asunder as if by an earthquake, and scattered both ways, leaving the front of the trappers clear.
“Whoop!” yelled one of the hunters. “Give ’em Hail Columby, boys, and durn the odds.”