“Come on out o’ thet!” he roared. “This is too hot fer us!”
“Save yourself!” came faintly from James Morris. “We are trapped! They mean to massacre us!”
His cries were cut short by two pistol shots. Then followed sounds of several blows, and James Morris appeared at the doorway, his face covered with blood. He took one more step forward, and with a gasp sank down in a heap.
From the storehouse now poured half a dozen Indians, armed with bows and arrows and tomahawks. Realizing that it would be useless to fight such a number of the enemy, and satisfied in his own mind that all of his companions were either killed or mortally wounded, Peaceful Jones turned and ran for the rear of the main building. Three arrows whizzed beside him, and a bullet from a pistol flew close to his ear.
“After heem! He must not escape!” came in the voice of Jean Bevoir. “Ve must keel dem all!”
Reaching the back of the main building, Peaceful Jones did not pause. In the snow lay some brushwood, and he caught up a branch of this, and, holding it behind him, continued to run. Two more arrows were sent after him and lodged in the tree-branch, thus saving him from further injury.
As he came close to the corner of the palisade he wondered what he had best do next. The Indians were after him hot-footed and so was one of the Frenchmen. He felt that to make a stand would mean certain death.
He had thus far gained a spot used the year before for sawing and splitting wood. A big saw-buck was still standing there, and he picked it up with ease and continued to run. Reaching the palisade, he stood the saw-buck up on one end and climbed to the top.
“Stop!” roared a voice, in French, and a rifle rang out. The bullet this time struck Peaceful Jones in the left shoulder, inflicting an ugly and painful wound. He gave a grunt, mounted the sharp points of the palisade, and dropped outside. Then, with all the strength that was left to him, he started for the nearest patch of timber, sixty yards distant. As he entered the timber some more arrows flew towards him, but went shy of their mark.
The trapper was now weak from the loss of blood, which was flowing down from his shoulder to his hand. But he staggered on, knowing that he now had no time to stop and bind up his wound. He rushed straight into the forest and staggered onward until he came to a clump of low-branched trees. Then, to “cut the trail,” as it was called, he pulled himself up into the trees by his uninjured arm and climbed from one tree to another, and so on, until a hundred feet had been covered. Then he dropped on some rocks, which the wind had swept clear of snow, and went forward as before, gritting his teeth, to keep himself from fainting from loss of blood.