Once more quiet ruled the house. Ambrose's head fell forward on his breast and he slept uneasily.
He was roused by the cry they had waited all night in dread of hearing:
"They're coming!"
Strange and Pringle ran out into the hall. Low as the cry was it was heard above. Colina and Giddings came flying down-stairs. Ambrose had already joined the others.
In the face of the deadly danger that threatened the men forgot their animosity for the moment. They were all crowded together in the narrow passage, far enough back from the closed door to see through the panes without being seen.
The five whites were afraid, as they might well be—but without panic. The half-breed was suspiciously calm. They lacked an unquestioned leader.
"That is Myengeen leading them," said Strange; "a bad Indian!"
"Macfarlane—tell us what to do," said Giddings.
"They're quiet now," said Colina. "I shall speak to them!"
Macfarlane put out a restraining hand. "Leave this to me!" he said quickly.
"We're in each other's way here," cried Ambrose. "Let us spread through some of the rooms."