“Up and at them!” was the constant cry. “Up and at them!” And then the volunteers made straight for one of the block-houses, and in a few minutes the enemy were retreating with all possible speed.
But the block-house could not be held, for the French were now moving on the rangers and volunteers in a larger number than before. The white uniforms covered the edge of the wood, and in a minute the command to which Dave and Barringford had attached themselves was almost surrounded.
“We can’t hold this nohow,” came from Barringford, who was re-loading his smoking musket. “Them Frenchm——”
“Down!” cried Dave, and shoved the old frontiersman backward. Then came a report from behind the block-house, and Barringford pitched over on his side and lay as one dead.
Dave’s musket was up in an instant, and taking careful aim he fired. He hit the man who had brought Barringford low, and the Frenchman went back with a ball through his breast.
“We must get out of here!” was the cry a few minutes later, and the retreat was sounded.
Dave bent over Barringford and found the frontiersman still breathing. He was shot in the head, just above the right ear, and covered with blood.
“Oh, if he only lives!” thought the young soldier. The idea of losing his old friend was too horrible to contemplate. Slinging his musket over his shoulder, he raised Barringford in his arms and gazed around helplessly.
“I’ll help ye, boy!” cried a ranger, who was running past, and he took hold of Barringford’s lower limbs, while Dave took him under the arms. Thus they ran a hundred yards or more, when two other volunteers came to their assistance, and Barringford was carried to the rear, and, later on, back to the general hospital.
