“No, not that, Carew,” cried one. “The redskins are chasing some poor devils who were bound here. Ah, they have turned on them! Plucky fellows!”
“Will you stand here, sir? Look yonder—quick!”
It was the voice of Baptiste, who was at one of the loopholes. He made room for me, and I peered eagerly out. The view was straight to the north, and what I saw turned my blood hot with anger.
Less than a quarter of a mile away, where the white, moonlit clearing ended at a narrow forest road running parallel with the river, the sorely-harassed little group was in plain sight—a sledge, a team of dogs, and three men kneeling on the snow. They were exchanging shots with a mass of Indians, who were dancing about on the verge of the timber, and were for the moment being held at bay. I could see the red flashes, and the wreaths of gray smoke against the dark green of the trees.
“They had better make a dash for it,” exclaimed Baptiste.
“Now is their chance.”
“We are all cowards,” I cried indignantly. “A party could have dashed out to the rescue by this time.”
“Just my opinion, Carew,” said a man named Walker. “But who was to give the orders? They must come from the factor. He’s down at the gates now, and plenty with him.”
“Then I’ll get his permission to go out,” I cried hotly. “Will you volunteer, men?”
But as I spoke—I had not taken my eyes from the loophole—the situation suddenly took a different turn. The Indians yelled with triumph, and I saw one of the three white men toss up his arms and fall over. At that his companions wheeled about, the one leaping upon the sledge, while the other ran toward the dog leader of the team.