“The Wild Man again, surely,” said Bounce, who, with his companions, had risen to await the coming up of the stranger.
“D’you think so?” cried March Marston eagerly.
“Ye—eh? why, I do b’lieve it’s Mr Macgregor,” cried the astonished Bounce as the reckless rider dashed up to the camp fire, and, springing from his horse with a yell that savoured more of a savage than a civilised spirit, cried—
“Look out, lads; up with a pile o’ rocks an’ trees! They’ll be on us in a jiffy! There’s five hundred o’ the red reptiles if there’s one. The Mountain Fort’s burned to cinders—every man and woman dead and scalped—look alive!”
These words were uttered hastily in broken exclamations, as Macgregor seized the logs that had been cut for firewood, and began violently to toss them together in a pile; while the trappers, although much amazed and horrified at the news, seized their hatchets and began to make instant preparation to resist an attack, without wasting time in useless questions. They observed that the commander of the Mountain Fort was pale as death, that his eyes were bloodshot, his clothes torn, and his hands and face begrimed with powder and stained with blood.
March Marston worked like a hero at the rude breastwork for some time, although the effort caused him so much pain that he could not help showing it on his countenance.
“March,” said Bounce, seizing him suddenly by the shoulder, “you’re not fit to work, an’ much less fit to fight. I’ll tell ye wot to do, lad. Jump on my horse, an’ away to yer friend the trapper, an’ bring him here to help us. One stout arm ’ll do us more good this night than ten battered bodies sich as yours, poor feller.”
March felt the truth of this, so without delay turned to obey. Just as he was about to leave he heard a deep groan, and turning round, saw Macgregor fall to the ground.
“You’re ill,” he cried, running to him and kneeling down.
“No—not ill, just a scratch from an arrow,” gasped the trader with an oath. “I believe the head’s stickin’ in my back.”