“Wall, we have an advantage,” replied Putty, who stood near. “We are under cover, and they won’t be, when they attack us.”
“Can they be friendly?”
“Friendly Indians don’t travel far in the rain. However, we can hear what they have to say when they come up.”
The possibilities of an attack had been talked over so many times that now when it looked as if it was really coming, each man knew what was expected of him and it was not necessary to tell him where to go. Four, including Dave, were stationed in the loft of the log cabin, at sheltered port-holes placed there when the post was built. The others went below, to the stockade and to the stables.
Barringford cautioned all to keep silent and hardly a sound broke the stillness five minutes after Dave had rushed in with the news. Each man was on the alert, with loaded rifles ready to hand and powder and ball close by. The storm was now over and here and there the stars were struggling through the scattering clouds.
Presently Dave pulled Putty by the coat sleeve. “An Indian!” he whispered. “Look!”
Dave was right, an Indian had appeared down by the garden clearing. He walked swiftly but noiselessly toward the stockade but came to a halt when he reached the angle and found the gate closed.
“Wall, Injun, what do ye want here this time of night?”
The question came from Sam Barringford, who had his station close by the gate. His rifle was thrust through the port, and his face peered forth over the muzzle.
If the red man was taken by surprise he did not show it. He came to a halt.