Brothers of Peril: A Story of old Newfoundland

by Theodore Goodridge Roberts

"Yes, we are on friendly terms with the people from Gander Lake," he replied, presently. "That is, we have traded with them a number of times, and have exchanged gifts with their chief, and through him with old Soft Hand. But Soft Hand is dead now; and these fellows are evidently from the West. Also, friendship means nothing where these vermin are concerned. Treachery is as the breath of life to them."

"Panounia," whispered Ouenwa, excitedly. "Panounia no good for friend. He is a murderer. He is a false chief. He make trade—yes, with war-arrows from the bushes and with knives in the dark. In friendship his hand is under his robe, and his fingers are on the hilt of his knife. Evil warms itself at his heart like an old witch at a fire."

D'Antons smiled thinly at the lad. "There is a time for all things," he said—"a time for oratory and another time for action. If you are willing, Master Kingswell, let us now retrace our steps as swiftly and quietly as may be. It would be wise to warn the fort that a band of the sly devils is abroad."

Ouenwa glanced uncertainly at the speaker and flushed darkly. Kingswell intimated his willingness to return immediately to Fort Beatrix by a curt nod. It was in his heart to administer a kick to Captain Pierre d'Antons, though just why the desire he could not say. They turned in their tracks and started back along the twisting, seven-mile trail. D'Antons led; and the pace he set was a stiff one. Mile after mile was passed, with no other sound save those of padding racquet and toiling breath. In the hollows their shoulders brushed the snow from the crowding spruce-fronds. Going over the knolls, they crouched low, and scanned the horizon with alert eyes as they ran.

At last, all but breathless from the prolonged exertion, the hunters turned aside from the path and ascended the gradual, heavily wooded side of a hill which overlooked the fort from the south. They crossed the naked summit with painful caution, bending double, and taking every advantage of the sheltering thickets.

"The choppers are inside," whispered D'Antons to Kingswell, as they peered furtively out between the snow-weighted branches. "See! And the savages are in cover along the river." It was quite evident to Kingswell that the place had been attacked, and was now in a state of siege. The platform in the southeast corner of the stockade was protected by shields composed of bundles of firewood. Men whom he recognized as those who had been working in the woods earlier in the day moved about within the enclosure. The wide, snow-covered clearing that had been so spotless when he had last seen it was trampled and stained here and there by dark patches. Along the fringe of timber that shut the river from the clearing, and extended to within a dozen paces of the southeast corner of the stockade, a Beothic warrior would frequently show himself for a moment, hoot derisively, and let fly a harmless shaft. Presently the watchers on the knoll saw the head and shoulders of William Trigget above the shield of the gun-platform. The master mariner shaded his eyes with his hand and seemed to be scanning the woods along the river and then the timber in which his own comrades were concealed. He lowered his hand and ducked quickly—and not a second too soon; for a flight of arrows rattled against his stronghold, a few stuck, quivering, into the pickets of the stockade, and many fell within the fort.

Kingswell turned to D'Antons. "More of them than we thought," he said. "There must have been a hundred arrows in that volley."

Captain d'Antons nodded with a preoccupied air. He did not look at his companion, and his brow was puckered in lines of thought. If the Englishman had been able to read the other's mind at that moment, a deal of future trouble would have been spared him. However, as Kingswell was but an adventurous, keen-witted young man, with no superhuman powers, he was content with the Frenchman's nod, and returned his attentions to the fort.

Suddenly, from the screen of faggots above which Trigget had so lately exposed his head, burst a flash of yellow flame, a spurt of white smoke, and a clapping bulk of sound. The stockade shook. A spruce-tree shook in the wood by the river, and cries of fear and consternation rang across the frosty air. A score of savages darted from their cover and as quickly sped back again. Flight after flight of arrows broke away and tested every inch of surface of Trigget's shelter. Then, with shrill screams and mad yells of defiance, the whole party of Beothics emerged into the clearing and dashed for the palisade. They drew their bows as they ran, and some hurled clubs and spears. In front, with red feathers in his hair and his right arm bandaged across his breast, Panounia shouted encouragement and led the charge. They were half-way across the open when the second cannon spat forth its message of hate. The ball passed low over the advancing mass and plunged into the timber beyond. For a second or two, the attackers wavered, a few turned back, then they continued their valorous onset. They were already springing at the palisade when the muskets crashed in their faces from half a dozen loopholes. This volley was followed immediately by another. The savages dropped back from their futile leapings against the fortification, hung on their heels for a moment, clamorous and undecided, and then broke for cover. They dragged their dead and wounded with them, and left sanguinary trails on the snow. They were within a few yards of the sheltering trees when one of the little cannon banged again. The ball cut across the mass of crowded warriors like a string through cheese.