There was no sound of voices, only the sharp cracking of rifles, or the ping of bullets whistling through the air as the Indians returned the biting fire of their intended victims. It was a life and death struggle against time, and both besieged and besiegers knew it.
Seth watched with quiet eyes but with mind no less anxious that he did not show it. He had no fixed station like the others. He moved here, there, and everywhere watching, watching, and encouraging with a quiet word, or lending his aid with a shot wherever pressure seemed to be greatest.
Noon passed. The whole plain was now alive with the slowly creeping foe stealing upon the doomed fort. The head of the advance was within three hundred yards of the stockade.
Parker was at Seth’s side. Both were aiming at a party of young braves, endeavoring to outstrip their fellows by a series of short rushes. For some moments they silently picked them off, like men breaking pipes in a shooting gallery. The last had just fallen. 329
“It’s red-hot this time,” observed the Agent, turning his attention in a fresh direction. “We’ll be lucky if we hold out until to-night.” He was blackened with perspiration and dust. He wore three bandoliers bristling with ammunition over a torn and stained shirt.
“Guess so,” Seth replied. “This ’ll last another two hours, I’m figgerin’, then we’ll—git busy.”
A fresh rush had started and the two rifles were kept at work. The Indians fell like ninepins, but there were always more to come on.
Hargreaves joined them a moment. He, too, was terribly war-worn. He still wore his clerical stock, but it had lost all semblance to its original shape.
“They’re rushing us everywhere, Seth,” he said.
Seth replied while he aimed at another daring warrior.