CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE END OF HOPE.
A body of Indians—nine or ten in number—were advancing at a run straight for the house, and each painted savage carried wrapped in his arms a mass of bedding from the abandoned sleeping quarters. I had no sooner caught a glimpse of the party and divined their alarming purpose, than a straggling volley was fired from the loopholes right and left of me. Crack! crack, crack!
Three Indians fell with their burdens, and one of them began to crawl away, dragging a broken limb after him. A fourth took fright and darted back, but the rest kept on. They were lost to view for an instant as they gained the very wall of the house and stacked the bedding against it. Then back they scurried to the shelter of the outbuildings, a single one falling by my musket, which I thrust quickly out and fired. Unfortunately my companions’ weapons were empty.
“Load up, men, fast!” cried Menzies. “The devils intend to fire the house! They will be coming back with timber next!”
“God help us if they get a blaze started with bedding and dry wood!” said I. “The house will go—we won’t be able to save it! I never counted on anything like this!”
“I was afraid of it from the first,” replied Captain Rudstone, “though I hoped we should have time enough to dig the tunnel. Our only chance is to keep the redskins away from the wall.”
“And that’s a mighty poor one!” muttered Carteret.