“Another,” he said quietly; and taking Tim’s gun as the sound of loading went on, he suddenly cried, “Who’s at the back?”
For there was a curious noise in the direction of the kitchen, followed by a shot, a yell, the sound of some one struggling, and they dashed into the place to see, as well as the darkness and smoke would allow, the embers from the hearth scattered and burning all about the kitchen, and a black figure writhing on the floor.
As he entered, Uncle Jack was in the act of passing his gun up the wide chimney—once more temporarily opened; there was a report, a yell, and another figure fell right on the burning fragments left on the hearth, rolled over, and lay motionless.
“Nearly surprised me,” said Uncle Jack, coolly loading just as Rifle fired twice from the loophole of the back door, when there was a rush overhead and then silence.
“They’ve drawn back about thirty yards,” said Rifle, loading as his father trampled out the burning embers, which were filling the place with a stifling smoke.
“Better pour water on the fire and put it quite out,” said the captain to his brother.
“No: water may be scarce soon,” was the reply. “We’ll tread it out.”
“Coming on again!” shouted Rifle; and as there was the customary sound of spears sticking into the woodwork, the boy fired twice, his charges of big shot scattering and wounding far more than he ever knew.
Just then four shots were fired quickly from the front, there was a savage yelling, and as the captain ran forward, Sam German could be dimly-seen beginning to recharge his piece.