The Rising of the Red Man | Page 8

and blaspheming wildly, while the blood spurted out
between his fingers. At the same moment, several bullets embedded
themselves in the thick window shutters and in the walls. One only
found its way through the dried mud between the logs, and this
smashed a bowl that stood on the dresser within two feet of Dorothy's
head. She merely glanced at it casually, and picking up the basket of
cartridges, prepared to hand them round. With fingers keen and
warming to their work, the defenders emptied the contents of their
magazines into the astonished half-breeds and Indians. It was more than
the latter had bargained for. They made for an open shed that stood
hard by, leaving their dead and wounded in the snow.
"What ho! Johnnie Crapaud, you pig!" cried Rory, withdrawing his
rifle from the loophole, and applying his mouth to it instead. "It's the
Red River jig I've bin dyin' to tache ye for many a long day."

At the same moment Jacques caught sight of his old _bete noire_,
Leopold St. Croix the elder, and, not to be outdone by his friend Rory
in the exchange of seasonable civilities with the enemy--although,
when he came to think of it afterwards, he might as well have shot his
man--he was applying his mouth to, his loophole to shout something in
the same vein when the quick-eyed Leopold fired a shot at the spot
from which the gun-barrel had just been withdrawn. So lucky or good
was his aim that he struck the mud in the immediate neighbourhood of
the hole, and sent the debris flying into the French-Canadian's mouth.
Jacques spent the rest of his time when in the house watching for a
long-haired half-breed with a red sash round his waist, who answered
to the name of St. Croix the elder.
_Ping, ping, ping, zip--phut--cr-runck!_ and the bullets played a very
devil's tattoo upon the walls and windows. The enemy were still five to
one, and if they could only succeed in rushing in and breaking down
the doors, victory would be in their hands. But to do that meant death to
so many.
Another half-hour, and the firing still continued, though in a more
desultory fashion. It was a strange waiting game, and a grim one, that
was being played. The defenders had shifted their positions to guard
against surprise. Douglas had in vain begged his daughter to leave the
room and join the women in an inner apartment, but she had pleaded so
hard with him that he allowed her to remain.
As for the sergeant, he was outwardly, at least, his old self. He was
silent and watchful, showing neither concern nor elation. He moved
from one position to another, and never pulled the trigger of his
Winchester without making sure of something. With the help of
Douglas he had pulled on his fur coat again, as the fire was going out,
and he was beginning to feel the cold in his wound.
"I can't make out why Child-of-Light hasn't come up with his men," he
said at length, "but, anyhow, he is sure to turn up--"
He paused, listening. Then all in the room heard the _chip-chop_ of an
axe as it steadily cut its way through a post of considerable size. The

rebels were evidently busy. Suddenly the sound stopped.
"They're preparing for a rush," observed Rory. "What I'm surprisit at is
ther riskin' their ugly carcases as they do."
"Sargain Pasmore--Sargean?" cried some-one from the shed.
"Aha! he has recognised your voice," said Jacques. "He is as the fox,
that St. Croix."
"Well, what is it?" shouted the sergeant.
What the half-breed had to say rather took the sergeant aback. It was to
the effect that unless they surrendered within a few minutes, they
would all most assuredly be killed.
Then for the first time that night Sergeant Pasmore betrayed in his
voice any feeling that may have animated him.
"Go home, Leopold St. Croix," he cried, "go home, and those with you
before it is too late! Go on to the Fort and ask pardon from those in
authority, and it may yet be well with you; For as soon as the
red-coated soldiers of the Great Queen come--and, take my word for it,
they are in number more than the fishes in the Great Lake--you will be
shot like a coyote on the prairie, or hanged by the neck, like a bad
Indian, on the gallows-tree. That is our answer, Leopold St Croix; you
know me of old, and you also know how I have always kept my word."
There was a dead silence for a minute or two, and whilst it lasted one
could hear the embers of the dying fire fall into ashes. On a shelf, an
eight-day clock