Suddenly there burst upon the night air a chorus of wild yells, coming from a point at the rear of the stockade. The six Indians sent to that place appeared, but took care to keep out of range of the frontiersmen’s rifles.
“They are coming—over the back stockade!” was the cry.
“Don’t run that way yet!” roared Sam Barringford. “Watch the gate! Watch the gate!”
Some of the men paused in bewilderment. Looking to the front, they could see nobody. From the rear a shot rang out, followed by several others, and then came a shower of arrows.
“Pretend to go back—and then turn and watch the gate,” ordered Joseph Morris.
The men obeyed. But Dave remained at the gate, his eye glued to a near loophole. Only the stars were shining, so he had to watch closely in order to see anything at all.
The demonstration at the rear of the post went on, and now the Indians became a little bolder, running to within fifty yards of the palisade. As a consequence one received a bullet wound in his arm, and then all slipped behind the trees.
“Here they come!” yelled Dave, suddenly. “Here they come! Sam, quick! They have a battering ram!”
“Jest as I supposed!” returned the old frontiersman. “Give it to ’em, Dave!”
Crack! went the rifle of the youth and one of the Frenchmen carrying the ram staggered for a moment, grazed in the side. Then the crowd came forward, swiftly and silently. Barringford took aim and fired, and another Frenchman dropped back, seriously wounded. But the others did not pause.