“Help—help!” I shouted, running in pursuit. “Stop them! Don’t let them get away!” With shrill cries, the redskins pushed on, and the single sentry at the gates deserted his post and fled. I heard an outcry behind me, and turning I saw that the factor and half a dozen others had come up. Griffith Hawke was the only armed man among them.
“What is the trouble?” he demanded.
“A spy!” I shouted incoherently. “A Northwest man in the fort, disguised as an Indian! I am certain it was Mackenzie! They tore him from me—don’t let them get him away!”
“Stop, you rascals!” the factor yelled loudly. “We must have that man!”
No attention was paid to the command, and lifting his musket, he pointed it at the squirming mass of savages in the gateway. There was a sudden flash, a stunning report, and one of the rearmost Indians dropped.
“My God! what have I done?” cried Griffith Hawke, his face turning pale. “It was an accident—my finger slipped. Don’t fire, men!”
The dead or wounded Indian had already been picked up by his comrades, and only a crimson stain was left on the snow to mark where he had fallen. The next instant the whole band were outside the stockade yelling like fiends, and with a crash some of our men flung the big gates to and barred them. A couple ran to the loopholes and peered out.
“The varmints are in retreat,” cried one—“making for the woods on the north.”
“And it’s a dead body they’re carrying with them, sure enough,” shouted the other.
By this time the fort was in a tumult, and a crowd surrounded the factor and myself, clamoring to know the cause of the disturbance. So soon as Griffith Hawke could quiet them a little, I told all that I knew, and produced the strip of birch bark. It was passed about from hand to hand.