Dave and Henry were in an angle of the fort. From this point they presently caught sight of half a dozen Frenchmen sneaking closer, along the shelter of some rocks. Without hesitation both raised their guns.
“My last bit of powder,” observed Henry and pulled trigger. As the report died away one of the Frenchmen threw up his hands and fell flat on his face, seriously wounded in the side.
“A good shot,” exclaimed Dave. “Here goes for another.”
He took equal care in aiming and the report was followed by the fall of another enemy. He turned to reload, when there came a sharp clipping of a bullet through the leaves and he saw Henry pitch over on his back.
“Henry!” he ejaculated, and for a moment his heart seemed to stop beating. His cousin lay like one dead, with the blood streaming from a wound in his side. Throwing down his rifle, Dave ran to him and raised him up.
“What’s the matter?” asked a soldier standing near. “Killed, eh? Too bad!”
“I—I don’t think he’s dead,” returned Dave. “Get the surgeon, will you?”
“Certainly,” and the soldier ran off through the rain. Soon he reappeared with the medical man, who dropped on his knees in the mud to make an examination.
“Got it pretty bad,” said the surgeon, after what seemed a very long wait to Dave.
“But he—he will get over it?” faltered Dave.