"Whisky! Whisky! The firewater; ha, ha!" cried these savages, laughing and yelling in his face under the very axe which menaced to leave them no heads into which to gulp their beloved liquor.
"You asses, it's powder!" he returned, contemptuous of their stupidity.
At the same moment, whilst his and half a dozen other pairs of hands wrenched the keg asunder, one of the gusts of wind swept towards the group the blazing shreds of a tarpaulin of a waggon being pillaged. A spark kindled the outpouring grains, the explosion ensued, and the cluster of redskins was horribly scattered, while the Bois Brulés fell limbed.
Though almost conquerors, the unsuppressible screams of the victims of this ravage intimidated the Crows, and nothing but the prompt encouragement of their chiefs prevented a panic. On the other hand, the view of so much harm wrought by a single hand revived the Half-breeds' courage. They saw that, at least, they would not perish without retaliation, and that they could evade death by torture by blowing themselves up.
The death dealing explosion acted as a signal for an armed truce of scanty duration.
Meanwhile the Scotch allies of the mountain men had watched the struggle from their aerie with the burning impatience of boarhounds who hear the beast gnashing his tusks. All but Ridge seemed thus chafing to take a share in the sanguinary game. They only controlled their warlike instincts till the bursting of the gunpowder keg forced them to applaud the Canadian victim. Then, without a word, they bounded from among the rocks and rushed down on the 'Plat.' All that Ridge could do was get them under some restraint, so as to "plunge in" orderly.
The combatants had their attention so engaged within the camp, that the new arrivals ran up to the waggon hubs without being noticed. Therefore the Yager halted them behind two stumps, of which the trunk and limbs had helped fence the enclosure, and went half round it to inspect the smoking ruins, where gashed and mutilated bodies proved that neither Canadian nor Indian struck with daintiness. Rejoining his companions, he briefly explained how he wished them to aim, and they impatiently awaited his word of command.
The pause was now over, for Ahnemekee was flourishing his spiked war club and sounding the charging cry. In another moment the redskins who survived the last shots of the Bois Brulés would be in the tent of the women and raining merciless blows on their unresisting forms.
"Fire into the brown of them!" roared Ridge, furious at the scene, not unknown to him, which he imagined.
At the back of the Crows, then, through the smoke and a few idly falling flakes of spotless snow, a dozen shots resounded, and at least ten of them pitched headfirst towards the Canadians, whose balls whizzed over them and strewed death among their surprised companions.