Worse, infinitely worse, the attackers possessed those diabolical engines of destruction which were developed in the World War—hand grenades. These, thrown upon the frozen gravel, exploded in all directions. Into the disordered ranks of the miners, the Siberians charged with the bayonet.
Armed only with their rifles, which were useless at close range, and with six-shooters, a weapon of but short usefulness, the Americans fought a losing fight.
Yet they repulsed the first attack, but at a staggering loss. The "Wizard," seriously but not fatally wounded, was carried behind the breastwork, his last words before losing consciousness being an order to cover the shelter with flat slabs of slate, before the Siberians got near enough to throw their grenades into the little fortified space.
Jim straightened up.
"Good-bye, little gal, if I don't see you again!" he called. "My place is at the front, now!"
He assumed the lead.
A second attack, even more vicious than the first, followed. The miners had reloaded. Most of them had two guns, hastily snatched from dead or wounded comrades. But for the grenades, they could have more than held their own. It was not to be. When the second rush subsided, the Siberians held one end of the gravel pit. The farther end, where were Jameine and the wounded men, held firm.
There came a lull, and, from where they lurked, the defenders saw suddenly some flashes of light from around the wireless house.
"They're after Anton!" said Clem. "He's all alone, up there. We can't leave the kid!"
"Right!" agreed a couple of the men. "Let's go!"