“All of them?” queried Joseph Morris.
“Yes.”
“They must be outside—maybe they are going to trap us after all,” came softly from Sam Barringford. “We had better——”
He stopped short and raised his long rifle. The sleeping Frenchman had roused up and was staring at the intruders. He rubbed his eyes in bewilderment.
“What want you here?” he stammered, in French.
“Silence!” came sternly from the old frontiersman. “Silence, ef ye don’t want to be kilt!”
The Frenchman understood little of English, but he understood enough, and he calmly submitted to being bound with a rope that was handy. In the midst of the work the Indian awoke, gave a swift look around, and started for the doorway, uttering a war-cry as he did so.
“Stop!” cried Joseph Morris, and fired his rifle at the red warrior. His aim was true, and the Indian went down, wounded in the back. Then came a shout from outside in French, followed by a war-whoop.
“We must fight for it now!” cried Henry.
“I am ready!” answered Dave. “Come on! The quicker we get at them the better!”