A gaunt, flat-bottomed York boat came suddenly round the bend in mid-stream. Six paddles flashed on either side between water and moonlight. Even so, progress was slow.
'Ready, Justin?' called Lamont, quickly. A sonorous grunt.
'First canoe.'
Brief silence, then a double report. Two Indians, one at each end of the leading canoe, staggered and fell over the side. Immediately the birch-shell overturned, and cast its occupants into the river.
But the black York boat came steadily on. In vain Justin crashed his bullets through the thick sides. In vain Lamont skilfully pierced the planking beneath water line. The gaunt bulwarks of this floating castle grew nearer. Even Justin shook his head and muttered, 'Bad!' McAuliffe swore and laid a brawny hand upon his axe. The boat was not more than a stone's throw from the end of the island, when a canoe, just launched from the opposite bank, came cutting a white line through the water. It had already reached mid-stream, when a strong cry rose from Winton's corner.
'What is it?' called McAuliffe, hurrying up.
'A canoe coming down stream. Not fifty yards off.'
'Attacked on three sides,' groaned the Factor, as he came to the young man's side. 'Half a dozen in it. Anything would send it over. Winton, boy, you must tackle it.'
'Right, Alf,' said the young fellow simply.
The Factor turned away heavily, but the voice behind called him back. 'Here, Alf, you've been square to the deadbeat.'