And the night wore on.
It must have been considerably past midnight when suddenly from down the glade where the horses were grazing, there arose a shriek so piercing, so full of wild imploring grief, that it found a response in every heart in the estancia sleeping or awake. While they listened it was repeated only once, but this time it died away in a moan, that told the terrible tale that a deed of blood had been done.
“Los Indios? Los Indios?” That was the shout from the Gaucho camp.
“To arms, men, to arms!” roared patriarchal old McDonald, rushing sword in hand into our heroes’ bed-chamber.
There was bustle and hurry now, but no confusion. The women were got into the fort first, the men covering their retreat, and hardly was this effected ere there was a headlong rush of a dark cloud that swept upwards from the river’s brink.
“Fire, men!” cried McDonald. “Give it ’em.”
There was a rattling volley, and the cloud fell back with shouts and groans. In five minutes more every man was inside, and the drawbridge was up.
Foiled in their attempt to seize and occupy the estancia by a surprise, the Indians, who were over a hundred strong, would hardly dare to attack the fort before morning. Nor did they seem to want to, but twice they made attempts to creep towards the houses, intent on plunder, but such a contingency as this had been well considered while building the fort, and those who now made the attempt bitterly repented their rashness the very next moment.
The men in the fort were thirty in all; their rifles were twenty. Twenty rifles against a hundred spears, the odds were not so overwhelming; but those Indians are terribly cunning in their mode of warfare, as our heroes soon found out, for small balls of burning grass, thrown sling-fashion, attached to a stone and rope of skin, soon began to fall thick and fast into the garrison.