“Say, Tim,” called one of the wounded men, “prop me up in front of this hole, and I'll show 'em I'm good yet.”
“Same here,” said the other, weakly.
Timmins went back and forth between them, doing what they wished, and loading their guns. Donald, grinning with the pain of his arm, managed to reload his rifle with his right hand. Buxton, swearing softly to himself, accomplished a like feat.
“For heaven's sake, Cap, let me wing Seguis this time, won't you?” begged Timmins.
“Wing him, yes, but don't kill him. I've got a 'few things I want to straighten out with him, if we ever get out of here alive, and I don't want him dead when I do it, either.”
“All right. Look out! Here they come! They must want this place mighty bad to keep this up.”
Only fifteen men answered Seguis's yell this time, and they did not seem over enthusiastic. But they swept down the little hill swiftly, scattered wide apart.
“Shoot slow and sure,” warned Donald, and a moment later one and another of the attackers began to drop or waver in their tracks. But they came on.
Seguis threw up his arms, and stopped short. Then, he recovered himself, and fought his way onward.
Inside the barricade, Timmins rolled over with a little sigh, and lay still. The logs, chipped and torn by many bullets, were now like a sieve, and one after another of the defenders released his gun, and lay still, or struggled in death throes. Only Buxton and McTavish continued to fire.