All at once George’s senses seemed to return to him, and he felt as calm and unshaken as either the earl or Lance. He turned to the earl and said:
“The two swivels are in the cellar directly back of us, and on a level with us. If we had one we could command this passage.”
“Get it,” replied the earl, laconically. “Take Cæsar with you—it is on wheels, you know.”
George darted into the cellar, and directly the rumbling of a small gun upon a rude carriage, with the wheels cut from solid logs of wood, was heard. Cæsar was dragging the swivel out, while George followed with the powder and shot. There was now not a single Indian in the narrow passage except one lying stark before them. Without a moment’s thought, George darted forward to drag the prostrate form out of the way of the gun, lest, if the Indian were dead, it might mutilate him, and if only wounded it might kill him.
As George stooped forward to lift him the Indian, who was bleeding profusely from a wounded leg, suddenly threw his left arm around George’s neck, and with the other hand drew a tomahawk from under him. But George was too quick for him, and, catching his arm, lifted him bodily, and carried him back into the large passageway where they stood.
It was Black Bear.
“You a squaw man,” was Lance’s comment.
Black Bear said no word, but, raising himself from the ground, produced a leather thong, which he tied around his bleeding leg, rudely but not unskilfully checking the flow of blood, after which Lance tied him securely and put him in a corner.
There was now a brief pause, and the guns were reloaded, and all were prepared for a second assault, while the swivel commanded the passageway thoroughly.
“They know what is going on here,” said the earl, “and their next attack will be by the front entrance.”