For the last time Shackelford descended from the gable, and prepared for the attack.
Large numbers of the attacking party had remained on the river banks for the purpose of intercepting the white-faces’ escape, should they be so fortunate as to leave the island safely.
The cabin was almost noiselessly surrounded; but the cautious footsteps had been heard by Massasoit, and the faithful animal would follow them around the limits of the hut, with flashing eyes and bristling back.
“I hate this suspense,” said George Long, looking up into the trapper’s face. “I wish the ball would open.”
“They’re hatching up something devilish. I know Tom Kyle, and what he can’t think of, that Red Eagle can.”
At this juncture Massasoit sprung to one corner of the hut with a fierce growl.
“The devils’ work has commenced,” said Shackelford, calmly. “They’re burning us out!”
Without another word he began to ascend to the eaves, with the aid of the rough logs that formed the cabin. George Long watched him by the fire, that cracked in the center of the room.
Presently he heard the report of a pistol, and the sound of a heavy body falling on brushwood quickly followed.
“One Pawnee won’t kindle any more fires,” said Frontier Shack, descending. “First blood for Ote Shack. Next!”