The seven fighting men left, swung around, and, in a minute, saw thirty trees suddenly give birth to thirty gray, swift-moving men, who, with guns swinging loosely in their hands swooped down the declivity at alarming speed. Seguis, tall and lithe, led them.
“Fire!” Five of the charging trappers sprawled forward, their arms outstretched, guns flying, and snowshoes plowing the loose snow that covered the surface.
“Fire!” One rifle only responded now: the hammers of the others clicked sharply in unison, but there was no explosion.
Nevertheless, the charge broke into precipitate retreat.
“What's the matter there, boys?”
“Ca'tridges no blame good!” drawled Buxton, trying vainly to stanch the flow of blood where one of his fingers had been carried away. “Prob'ly they're center-fire ca'tridges for rim-fire guns, or vicy-versy.”
McTavish clenched his teeth.
“I might have known it,” he said. “These rebels have collected all the old ammunition they could find and stored it here. Some of 'em have guns made in 1850, I guess.”
Meanwhile, a rapid examination was being made. Buxton was right. While the rifles were center-fire, a great many of the cartridges were rim-fire, and consequently useless unless broken and the powder and ball rammed home as in the old muzzle-loaders. There were, however, among the little mounds of cartridges, many that would fit the guns, and these were sorted with desperate energy in the lull that followed the fighting.
Presently, one of the free-traders, with a piece of blanket tied about his rifle-barrel, appeared in the foreground. The besieged, realizing the spirit in which the sign was offered, agreed that it once might have represented a white flag.