“I say, Douglas, some of those Indian horses would come in handy to assist in our journey homeward.”
“That they would,” replied Douglas. “I was thinking the same.”
“Hurrah!” then said Leonard; “let us have them.”
So it was agreed to make the attempt.
And this is how it was accomplished. Four of the friendly Indians made a détour, and attacked the camp of the foe in the rear. It was a lovely moonlight night, and this ruse was completely successful. The enemy sprang to their bows and arrows, and prepared to repel the attack. A shot or two was fired, then the friendlies ran pursued by the foe. The white men had it all their own way now; they speedily picked out eight of the best horses, and were soon galloping off camp-wards as quickly as the nature of the ground would permit.
In this case, at all events, fortune favoured the brave, and all got safe inside the fort, only one Indian being wounded slightly.
But the Ojibbeways determined on revenge, and the very next night quite a cloud of arrows was poured into the fort, and then an attempt made to scale the rampart, the savages making night hideous with their howlings and wild cries. They had to retire worsted, however, and it was nearly a week before they again made an attack. But meanwhile they had been greatly reinforced, and the fight was now a terrible one. It began while it still was dark, but soon the moon rose, then the Indians suffered severely for their rashness.
For many days, and night after night, these attacks were made. None of the white men were wounded, but one friendly was killed, and another put hors de combat. Things began to look very serious, and if assistance came not soon Captain Blunt feared the very worst.
“Surely,” thought Leonard and Douglas, “the worst has come,” when one night the poor trapper fell at their feet, pierced through the heart with an arrow. This night’s attack was a fearful one. The savages, regardless of their lives, leapt on top of the rampart, though only to fall dead within the enclosure.