CHAPTER XXVIII

IN WHICH A BATTERING RAM IS USED

The announcement that the frontiersman made filled Dave and the others who heard it with horror. For the moment the youth could not believe the evidence of his senses.

“Going to blow us up?” he queried.

“Yes—look for yourself, if you don’t believe it!” And the man ran further away than ever.

“What does he say?” asked Joseph Morris, who had just come up.

“He says the Indian you wounded is in the storehouse and is going to set fire to the casks of powder stored there.”

“In there?” returned the planter.

“Let us stop him—if we can,” went on Dave, and rushed forward, without considering the great risk he was assuming by such action.

He ran into the storehouse, and his uncle came at his heels. Sure enough, the wounded Indian was there, firebrand in hand. He was waving it over a powder keg that was broken open and muttering a weird chant. He knew that he was mortally wounded, and if he had to die he wanted his hated enemies to die with him.

Dave and his uncle gazed on the scene as if bound by a spell. A single spark from that torch dropped into the powder would mean death and destruction to nearly everybody and everything in the post. The Indian was calm and continued to chant.

Presently, with a start, Dave broke the spell that bound him. He made one swift leap, caught the torch from behind and sent it whizzing away through the open doorway. Some sparks dropped to the floor and as they fell his foot covered them.

The Indian, taken completely off his guard, turned in consternation. The youth sprang upon him and bore him to the floor. Then Joseph Morris leaped in, and together they dragged the miscreant out of the building.

A crowd of half a dozen had collected. They saw the torch and saw the red man pushed and dragged into the open. They waited for an explosion, but it did not come. Then all began to breathe easier.

“Dave, you saved us all!” It was Joseph Morris who spoke. The great beads of perspiration were standing out on his forehead.

“I—I am glad if I did,” answered the youth. Now the danger was past, he found himself trembling like a leaf.

“Kill that Injun!” was the cry. “Kill him! He ain’t fit to live!”

Swiftly the crowd turned on the red man. The Indian had sunk on the ground in a heap. His wound had broken afresh and he was gasping heavily. Barringford ran to him, hunting knife in hand. Then the old frontiersman shook his head and motioned the others back.

“He’s dying, men,” he said. “Let him alone.”

“Are ye sure o’ thet, Sam?” asked one man.

“Dead sartin.” And Barringford’s words proved true, for the Indian expired soon after.

The alarm had put everybody in the post on his mettle, and a strict hunt was made, to see if anybody else was in hiding around the place. Nobody was found, and gradually the garrison settled down.

“It is maddening to think that Henry is missing,” said Joseph Morris, shortly after the noon hour. “I would give a great deal to know what has become of him.”

“And I’d like to know what Jean Bevoir intends to do next,” returned his nephew.

“He and his followers may wait until to-night and then attack us.”

Slowly the rest of the day wore away, and during that time all in the post made themselves as comfortable as possible. An examination of the stores showed that the Frenchmen and Indians had provided themselves with plenty of food, so the present garrison would not suffer in that respect.

“So far as rations are concerned, we can hold this place for a month,” said Joseph Morris. “And as the river is so near, they cannot very well close off our water supply.”

“Jean Bevoir won’t wait to starve us out,” said Barringford. “He’ll attack us, or do somethin’ else, mark my words.”

An early supper was had, and then the men on guard began a closer vigilance than ever. Every tree and bush and every rock without was closely watched. The tunnel had been shut up in such a way that it could not be used for the time being.

So far there had been little wind, but now a strong breeze came up. Hardly had it started than a shower of fire arrows came sailing over the stockade, to land in many directions.

“They are going to try to set fire to the buildings!” cried Dave.

“Put out the arrows!” cried Joseph Morris, and ran for some wet bags. With the bags the majority of the fire arrows were quickly extinguished. Two lodged on the roof of the main building, and Dave climbed up to put them out.

“Be careful,—don’t expose yourself!” exclaimed his uncle.

The instant Dave made a whack with his wet bag at the fire arrow several other arrows flew in the direction, one striking his hunting shirt. The flame on it burnt fiercely and set fire to the youth’s garments.

“Look out, you’re burning!” cried one man.

“Roll down in the snow!” came from Sam Barringford.

This was good advice, and Dave lost no time in following it. Down he came in a pile of snow and rolled over and over, and the small blaze was immediately extinguished.

One of the arrows shot last had got a good hold between the logs of the roof and was burning at a lively rate.

“We ought to have some water,” said Joseph Morris.

“Snow will do,” answered the old frontiersman, and taking up a good-sized chunk, he hurled it at the arrow. His aim was good and the fire was blotted out. Then others took up handfuls of snow, and as soon as the burning arrows appeared, covered them completely; so that that new danger was quickly past.

The Indians under Moon Eye had hoped much from their burning arrows and were deeply chagrined to see them put out so easily. They sent out half a hundred or less and then ceased operations.

“The snow has aided them,” grunted the chief in disgust. “We must try some other plan.”

“Why not get a battering ram and ram down the gate?” asked Benoit Vascal of Jean Bevoir, in French.

The Frenchman suggested this to Moon Eye. The Indian leader was willing, provided the Frenchmen would use the ram, leaving the Indians to enter the post after the gate was down.

During the early part of the evening, another band of red men and several Frenchmen had come up, friendly to Moon Eye and to Bevoir. They joined forces with those besieging the post, making those without much stronger than before. Jean Bevoir promised the Indians and his countrymen all sorts of things if they would aid in capturing the post and in killing all the whites found defending it.

The plan to batter down the gate was carefully made. A fair-sized tree was cut down and trimmed off, leaving just enough of the branches to make good handles. This battering ram was brought up in the forest in a direct line with the stockade gate. At the front was placed a shield of loose branches and bark.

It the meantime, it was decided that six Indians should go to the rear of the post and make a demonstration there, shouting loudly and firing their guns and arrows,—doing this to draw the attention of the post defenders to that point. When the alarm was at its height, the battering ram was to be used with all force and as swiftly as possible. The moment the gate was down, Indians and Frenchmen were to rush into the post grounds and slaughter all who opposed them.

Having eaten his supper after the others, Sam Barringford walked around the entire stockade, questioning all who were on guard. Nobody had seen either a Frenchman or an Indian, although constantly on the alert.

“Tell ye wot I heard though,” said one frontiersman to Barringford. “I heard ’em choppin’ down a tree over yonder.”

“Sure it war a tree, Collins?” asked the old frontiersman, with interest.

“I am.”

“Humph!”

Sam Barringford said no more, but went straight to Joseph Morris.

“We want to watch thet gate harder nor ever,” he announced.

“Why, Sam?”

“They have been cuttin’ down a tree.”

“Ha! Do you think they wish to use it for a battering ram?”

“Don’t know wot else they’d want it fer. Anyway, it won’t hurt to watch the gate extry well.”

“I’ll have it done,” answered the planter, and was as good as his word.

Another hour went by and still the silence around the trading post continued. A few of the men were sleepy, but they were ordered to keep awake.

“Our sleeping will be done in the daytime after this—until the alarm is at an end,” said Joseph Morris.

Suddenly there burst upon the night air a chorus of wild yells, coming from a point at the rear of the stockade. The six Indians sent to that place appeared, but took care to keep out of range of the frontiersmen’s rifles.

“They are coming—over the back stockade!” was the cry.

“Don’t run that way yet!” roared Sam Barringford. “Watch the gate! Watch the gate!”

Some of the men paused in bewilderment. Looking to the front, they could see nobody. From the rear a shot rang out, followed by several others, and then came a shower of arrows.

“Pretend to go back—and then turn and watch the gate,” ordered Joseph Morris.

The men obeyed. But Dave remained at the gate, his eye glued to a near loophole. Only the stars were shining, so he had to watch closely in order to see anything at all.

The demonstration at the rear of the post went on, and now the Indians became a little bolder, running to within fifty yards of the palisade. As a consequence one received a bullet wound in his arm, and then all slipped behind the trees.

“Here they come!” yelled Dave, suddenly. “Here they come! Sam, quick! They have a battering ram!”

“Jest as I supposed!” returned the old frontiersman. “Give it to ’em, Dave!”

Crack! went the rifle of the youth and one of the Frenchmen carrying the ram staggered for a moment, grazed in the side. Then the crowd came forward, swiftly and silently. Barringford took aim and fired, and another Frenchman dropped back, seriously wounded. But the others did not pause.

Crash! The battering ram struck the gate with great force, causing it to quiver from top to bottom. But the posts and the oaken bars held, and those outside had to run back with the tree-trunk.

“Fire on ’em! Fire on ’em!” yelled Barringford, and he and Dave let drive a second time, and two other defenders followed suit. The men with the battering ram came up, but just as they were within three yards of the gate one of the leaders staggered and fell, shot through the knee. This confused the others, and the second blow on the gate was, consequently, a feeble one.

“Again! Again!” shrieked Jean Bevoir. “Up with the log!” he added, in French. “Remember the reward, if you get into the post! Now then, all together!”

Once more those outside raised the battering ram and ran back with it. They paused for a moment, to gather their strength. Then they hurled themselves forward, and the ram hit the gate with a crash that was deafening, causing the splinters to fly in all directions.