In the midst of the ransacking, Crawford heard the plunging bark of a fusil. He whirled upon Vanderberg.
“You’re caught. Get your men to the boat, quick! Wait there for me. I’ll hold off and gain you plenty of time.”
Seizing from the mantel the large tomahawk which he had retained as his own loot, Crawford darted from the room, leaped out into the snow, and heard the shrill whistles calling the men. A shout came from ahead, around the corner of the buildings and up the river-trail; then arose the biting Abnaki war whoop. Crawford understood that the two men so recently set as an outpost had been encountered by some of Saint-Castin’s returning party.
Another fusil banged out its message, another Abnaki yell went barking up into the frosty night. Ahead of him Crawford saw the two seamen stumbling back through the trodden snow of the trail.
“To the boat, quickly!” he snapped at them, then threw back his head and sent a long, quavering cry of four syllables sounding up through the forest. It was the most feared and dreaded sound that could be heard in French or Algonquin ears—a sound to stop the very heart-beats of Abnaki or Caniba or Malicete warriors, a sound that, coming from the throat of the unknown raiders, would bring Saint-Castin himself to a cautious halt. It was the war-cry of the Mohawks.
“Sassakouay!”
It rose fierce and sharp with the true intonation that Crawford’s red friends had taught him so carefully, ringing up through the frosty trees, a veritable peal of doom to Algonquin ears.
“Kouay! Sassakouay!”
A distant yelp, like the frightened outcry of a street cur pursued by a mastiff, came from the depths of the forest, then silence. Crawford, smiling grimly, turned about and regained the front of the palisade. He found Frontin waiting there, alone.
“They’ll scout cautiously,” he said, laughing a little. “We’ve plenty of time. That Mohawk whoop will hold them back more firmly than many muskets.”