His wife’s rifle flew to her shoulder, the end of the barrel resting in the little port-hole; her keen eye flashed over the weapon, and her steady forefinger pressed the trigger.
“Crack!”
A yell of mortal agony followed the shrill report, and the first man of the number which had rushed forward, fell dying in the arms of his comrades.
A chorus of yells rang out as they bore the dying man back into the shelter of the trees.
Then all was still.
“A good shot,” said Jared. “They’ll begin to understand that we’re not going to be gobbled up very easily.”
“But they could starve us out if they held out long enough,” said his wife; and the brave woman felt a strange heaviness at her heart when she looked upon the two children, who were crying as they huddled together in a corner.
“They won’t wait so long,” said Jared Dwight. “They’re very still, and that is what I don’t like. It means deviltry of some kind, and—my God!”
A flaming arrow tore through the air, and fixed itself in the dry logs of the house.
Another and another followed, until the air seemed full of blazing darts.