They waited breathlessly.
“Now, ready!”
The door was opened, and a moment thereafter the glare of the lightning was followed by another flash from the doorway. Groans, shrieks, and curses rang out as the assailants scampered helter-skelter back to their friendly rocks, leaving more of their dead upon the ground behind them.
“That was it,” said Sam. “That will keep them in check for a while. If we can hold ’em off until daybreak, we are safe.”
The strikers were now angry and sore and wet through. Some of them were wounded. “Red” Cleary himself had a bullet through his shoulder. But his spirits were not daunted, although six of his men lay dead upon the ground. A long consultation followed the last unsuccessful assault. At last Cleary said: “Well, it won’t do any good to stand here talkin’. It’s gettin’ late, an’ if we don’t drive ’em out to-night, it’s all up with us an’ we’d jest as well be lookin’ out fur other diggin’s. We’ve got to crawl up as near as we can an’ then rush ’em. It’s the only way, an’ what we ought to done at first. Get down on your knees. Never mind the mud—better have it under you than over you.” The men sank down, and went creeping forward like a swarm of great ponderous vermin. They had not gone ten paces when some one said, “Tsch! what is that?” They stopped where they were. A sound came to their ears. It was the laboured puffing of a locomotive as it tugged up the incline that led to the settlement. Then it stopped. Within the room they had heard it, too, and there was as great suspense as without.
With his ear close to the ground, “Red” Cleary heard the tramp of marching men, and he shook with fear. His fright was communicated to the others, and with one accord they began creeping back to their hiding-places. Then, with a note that was like the voice of God to the besieged, through the thunder and rain, a fife took up the strains of “Yankee Doodle” accompanied by the tum-tum of a sodden drum. This time a cheer went up from within the room,—a cheer that directed the steps of the oncoming militia.
“It’s all up!” cried Cleary, and, emptying his pistol at the wood fort, he turned and fled. His comrades followed suit. A bullet pierced Sam Bowles’s wrist. But he did not mind it. He was delirious with joy. The militia advanced and the siege was lifted. Out into the storm rushed the happy blacks to welcome and help quarter their saviours. Some of the Negroes were wounded, and one dead, killed at the first fire. Tired as the men were, they could not sleep, and morning found them still about their fires talking over the night’s events. It found also many of the strikers missing besides those who lay stark on the hillside.
For the next few days the militia took charge of affairs. Some of the strikers availed themselves of the Croftons’ clemency, and went back to work along with the blacks; others moved away.
When Jason Andrews was well enough to be moved, he came back. The Croftons had already told of his heroism, and he was the admiration of white and black alike. He has general charge now of all the Crofton mines, and his assistant and stanch friend is big Sam.