"It was a close shave," said one of the frontiersmen. "A little closer and he would have been killed on the spot."
"I nailed Rain Cloud for it," came from the other guard. "He has gone to his happy hunting ground."
"I don't know if he was to blame, exactly," began Henry, and shuddered.
"Sure he was to blame. No doubt but that the Injuns had it fixed to fire on your uncle if he wouldn't surrender."
A fierce war-whoop now rang out, drowning all other sounds, and for the first time since coming to the post, the Indians let drive a volley of bullets and arrows. Fortunately not one took effect, although one arrow, sailing up in the air, dropped directly over Henry's shoulder, and another hit the fringe of a frontiersman's jacket.
As soon as he could recover from the shock received, James Morris caught up a rifle and joined in the defense, and Henry did the same. The Indians were now coming forward in a body, and the whooping was incessant. After the first volley shots were fired irregularly, and those inside the post returned the fire whenever a favorable opportunity showed itself.
"They are at the gates!" was the cry, in a few minutes, and there followed a crash. The red men had come up with a big log, which they used as a battering ram. Just as the gates were struck, the defenders of the post sent in a volley and two red men fell lifeless beside the log.
"That's the way to serve them!" cried James Morris. The blood fairly covered his face, making him hideous in the extreme, but he paid no attention. A number of rocks were at hand, which those inside the post seized and hurled on the heads of the red men without. This was too much for the Indians, and once more they retreated, leaving the log and their dead behind them.
"Listen! I hear shots from a distance!" exclaimed Henry, during the lull that followed.
He was right, the shots could be plainly heard, and they kept coming nearer. The war-whoops of the Indians sounded out, and then a yell which they knew must come from the throats of white men.