The immediate result of this vigorous defence was to make the Indians draw off and retire to the woods—presumably for consultation. By previous arrangement the negro girl issued from the house with three fresh repeaters in her arms, ran round to the combatants with them and returned with their almost empty rifles. These she and Mary proceeded to reload in the hall, and then returned to their post at the upper front window.
The morning was by this time pretty well advanced, and Jackson felt a little uncertain as to what he should now do. It was still rather dark; but in a very short time, he knew, dawn would spread over the east, when it would, of course, be quite impossible to defend the walls of the little fort without revealing the small number of its defenders. On the other hand, if they should retire at once the enemy might find a lodgement within, among the outbuildings, before there was light enough to prevent them by picking off the leaders; in which case the assailants would be able to apply fire to the wooden wails of the house without much risk.
“If they manage to pile up enough o’ brush to clap a light to,” he grumbled to himself in an undertone, “it’s all up wi’ us.”
The thought had barely passed through his brain, when a leaden messenger, intended to pass through it, carried his cap off his head, and the fire that had discharged it almost blinded him. Bigfoot, the chief of the savages, had wriggled himself, snake-fashion, up to the stockade unseen, and while Roaring Bull was meditating what was best to be done, he had nearly succeeded in rendering him unable to do anything at all.
The shot was the signal for another onslaught. Once more the woods rang with fiendish yells and rattling volleys. Bigfoot, with the agility and strength of a gorilla, leaped up and over the stockade and sprung down into Jackson’s arms, while Darvall and Crux resumed their almost ubiquitous process of defence, and Buttercup’s weapon again thundered forth its defiance.
This time the fight was more protracted. Bigfoot’s career was indeed stopped for the time being, for Jackson not only crushed the life almost out of him by an unloving embrace, but dealt him a prize-fighter’s blow which effectually stretched him on the ground. Not a moment too soon, however, for the white man had barely got rid of the red one, when another savage managed to scale the wall. A blow from the butt of Jackson’s rifle dropped him, and then the victor fired so rapidly, and with such effect, that a second time the Reds were repulsed.
Jackson did not again indulge in meditation, but blew a shrill blast on a dog-whistle—a preconcerted signal—on hearing which his two comrades made for the house door at full speed.
Only one other of the Indians, besides the two already mentioned, had succeeded in getting over the stockade. This man was creeping up to the open door of the house, and, tomahawk in hand, had almost reached it when Dick Darvall came tearing round the corner.
“Hallo! Crux,” cried Dick, “that you?”
The fact that he received no reply was sufficient for Dick, who was too close to do more than drive the point of his rifle against the chest of the Indian, who went down as if he had been shot, while Dick sprang in and held open the door. A word from Jackson and Crux as they ran forward sufficed. They passed in and the massive door was shut and barred, while an instant later at least half-a-dozen savages ran up against it and began to thunder on it with their rifle-butts and tomahawks.