“No more, Jules Bardue!” cried Kate Blount, with flashing eyes. “I know you; you can’t disguise your hated voice. I know what brought you hither, and death is far preferable to the life you have marked out for me. Depart immediately, base creole dog, else, through this door, a bullet shall stop your whinings.”
A terrible anathema burst from the lips of the maddened creole, and there was a hasty flight from the porch.
“Ha, they run!” cried Kate, turning to the Peoria.
“But they will come again,” was the reply. “The Yellow Chief will have the Lone Dove or die!”
The lips of the trader’s daughter met in terrible determination, and a low whine from Pontiac announced the return of the savages.
A moment later a heavy blow fell upon the door; but the barricades resisted to good effect, and, throwing down the battering-ram, the savages poured a volley of musket-balls through the planks. Suspecting their design, our friends had taken shelter behind the heavy logs that nestled behind the plank weather-boarding, and thus escaped the leaden pellets. Scarcely had the balls perforated the door, when Swamp Oak sprung to his feet and fired through the protection.
A death-yell, similar to the yelp of the wolf, announced the result of his shot, and a moment later Kate Blount’s rifle sent an Ottawa to the hunting-grounds of his tribe.
The lucky shots drew a chorus of demoniac yells from the savages, and while the brave twain reloaded their weapons, those outside rushed in a body against the door.
The first blow with the sapling which they had deserted a moment before, sent a shiver over the structure, and the second stroke drove the faithful door from its hinges!
The ram was handled by demons now, and nothing could resist their fury.