At this the Indian uttered a grunt of disappointment and disgust. “We must come in,” he insisted. “We are cold, tired and hungry.”
“You’ll git away—and quick!” ordered Barringford and raised the muzzle of his rifle until it was leveled at the Indian’s head. At once the red man turned and sped away whence he had come.
“Wall, did I do right?” called out the old hunter, after the Indian was gone. He no longer thought it necessary to remain silent.
“Ye did,” answered Putty, who was the leader of the others. “Wonder how soon he’ll be back?”
“Perhaps he won’t come,” put in Dave. “I trust he doesn’t.”
“Trust nothin’, lad, they’ll come afore ye know it.”
Putty had scarcely spoken when a savage war-whoop rang out just beyond the clearing, answered by another whoop from up the river. Then as if by magic Indians appeared to spring up all around the trading-post. All rushed forward, some with guns and others with bows and arrows, and all with tomahawks at their girdles. The yells were deafening and for the moment Dave was dazed by the sight and the noise.
“Oh, what a crowd—at least forty or fifty of them!” he gasped. “We can’t stand against so many. They——”
The end of his remark was cut short by the report of Barringford’s rifle, followed by the crack! crack! of several other guns. Putty was at a port hole trying to pick off one of the leaders. The Indians had also fired, but none of the whites were reached. Two of the red men went down, and now Putty dropped a third, which, later on, proved to be Red Bird himself.
With his heart almost in his throat, Dave shoved his own rifle through one of the holes. An Indian was sneaking around the angle of the stockade, followed by half a dozen others. Bang! went the youth’s firearm, and the leading red man fell, shot through the thigh. But the others kept on and almost before those inside knew it three were over the stockade and more were following.