“No!” exclaimed Neale. He drew Allie aside. “You’re scared.”
“I’d never forget Fresno,” she replied, positively. “He was one of the four ruffians who burned Slingerland’s cabin and made off with me.”
Then Neale shook with a violent start. He grasped Allie tight.
“I saw him, too. Just before I came in. I saw one of the men that visited us at Slingerland’s.... Big, hulking fellow—red, ugly face—bad look.”
“That’s Fresno. He and the gang must have been camped with those graders you brought here. Oh, I’m more afraid of Fresno’s gang than of the Indians.”
“But Allie—they don’t know you’re here. You’re safe. The troops will be back soon, and drive these Indians away.”
Allie clung to Neale, and again he felt something of the terror these ruffians had inspired in her. He reassured her, assuming a confidence he was far from feeling, and cautioned her to stay in that protected corner. Then he went in the other room to his station. It angered Neale, and alarmed him, that another peril perhaps menaced Allie. And he prayed for the return of the troops.
The day passed swiftly, in intense watchfulness on the part of the defenders, and in a waiting game on the part of the besiegers. They kept up a desultory firing all afternoon. Now and then a reckless grader running from post to post drew a volley from the Sioux; and likewise something that looked like an Indian would call forth shots from the defenses. But there was no real fighting.
It developed that the Sioux were waiting for night. A fiery arrow, speeding from a bow in the twilight, left a curve of sparks in the air, like a falling rocket. It appeared to be a signal for demoniacal yells on all sides. Rifle-shots ceased to come from the slopes. As darkness fell gleams of little fires shot up from all around. The Sioux were preparing to shoot volleys of burning arrows down into the camp.
Anderson hurried in to consult with Baxter. “We’re surrounded,” he said, tersely. “The redskins are goin’ to try burnin’ us out. We’re in a mighty tight place.”