“Hold your fire!” was the order, and the fleeing trappers gained the woods unmolested.
Not so the brave Indian who came on. There was nothing of retreat in his make-up. He had started to charge the fort, and take it. The fort was still untaken, and he was still alive—two things that seemed utterly incongruous to his mind.
“Don't fire,” said McTavish.
On the man came, amid absolute silence. He was at the wall of the fort when suddenly Donald rose to his full height, flung up both arms, and yelled at the top of his voice—the familiar manner of stopping a pursuing wild animal. The Indian, instinctively taken aback, halted, and Donald reached over and drew the gun out of the unresisting hand, while a roar of laughter went up. This was too much for the brave, who, with a fearful curse, drew his knife, and cleared the fort wall at a bound. But he died in mid air, for Donald, quicker than he, had swung the man's own musket by the barrel, and brought it down with all his strength upon the fur-covered head. Instantly, a howl went up from the forest, followed by a volley, which McTavish avoided by the speed of his drop into the trench. But others who had been watching were careless, and did not fare so well. Two of the men, one of them old Bill Thompson, dropped dead in their tracks. The man who had been badly wounded in the first fatalities was now out of his misery, and there remained but seven to guard the furs, and the honor of the Hudson Bay Company. The snow inside the barricade was stained with blood.
But there was no time now to sentimentalize. The dead were passed along from hand to hand and piled at one end, the brave Indian among them. Buxton had lost considerable blood, but he was cheerful, and Timmins whistled continually. Another man had a ball in his left shoulder, and a third had had his cheek grazed.
Of the free-traders it was impossible to say how many were dead or wounded; Donald, after a moment's careful reckoning, felt sure that more than a third of them, if not half, had felt lead.
Now however, Seguis changed his tactics. The next charge came from three points at once, and Donald met it as best he could with three volleys—one at seventy-five yards, another at forty, and a third at ten—when the dark, frenzied faces and flashing eyes of the free-traders were so close that the streaks of yellow flame seemed to shoot out and touch them. The loss was heavy on both sides, and for the first time inside the barricade demoralization reigned. Had the attackers possessed the one necessary extra ounce of heroism, and pressed on to the goal, they could have won it.
Donald himself went down with the shock of a bullet that broke his left arm; two others of his men, who had stood up in the moment of excitement, were dead, and two others severely wounded. Only the unconcerned Timmins had passed through the ordeal unscathed.
“Water! Heavens, I wish I had some water!” grunted Buxton.