“What do you want?” inquired Donald.
“Want to pick up our dead and wounded.”
“Go ahead. Are you ready to talk surrender yet? I can offer you every consideration, if you don't go on with your tactics.”
“Quit wasting time, McTavish,” cried Seguis, suddenly appearing beside his standard-bearer. “We won't surrender—ever! We want that fort, and we're going to have it. If you get out now, we won't hurt you. If you keep this thing up, I can't promise anything. My Indians here are getting a little excited.”
“All right, if that's the way you feel about it,” Donald retorted. “Turn 'em loose. Say! Pick up your men if you want to, but only two men on the field at once. Number three gets a bullet.”
“All right.”
A moment later, a couple of trappers, unarmed, walked out upon the declivity, and began to haul their dead and wounded comrades back into shelter. During the lull, the besieged filled their belts with what good ammunition there was—ten rounds per man. Bill Thompson wagged his beard sagely over the lamentable situation they now faced, and remarked that it reminded him of a time when he—
“Quick!” rang Donald's alarmed voice. “Through the logs! Fire!”
Without a word, the men, realizing instinctively what had occurred, shoved the noses of their guns through the loopholes and fired pointblank, without aiming, at the band of men that had stealthily crept upon them from behind while the truce negotiations had been going on.
They were barely thirty yards away, and coming fast, but the withering hail of lead that greeted them crumpled their front line as though it were made of paper. The others, unable to see their assailants, wavered a minute, and then broke, with the exception of one man.