Twelve men. Twelve men who know how to use rifles. That's all we've got.
And four were Nicole's husband, two of her sons and her father.
She gasped.
She saw a loop of rope fly through the air above the eastern wall and catch on one of the sharpened logs. A moment later a dark head crowned with feathers appeared above the palisade. And Burke Russell was looking the other way.
"Burke, look out!" Pamela screamed.
Burke heard that. He swung around, raising his rifle to his shoulder.
"Please, God!" Nicole cried.
The Indian leaped over the parapet. He seemed twice as tall as Burke, with bulging muscles that gleamed with oil. He wore only a loincloth, and his walnut-brown body was painted with red, yellow and black stripes. His scalplock flew out behind him as he rushed Burke, swinging a war club with a glittering metal spike protruding from its thick end.
Burke's rifle went off with an orange flash, a boom, a cloud of smoke.
The Indian wasn't stopped. The war club came down on Burke's head. Nicole heard the hollow thud and heard herself cry out.