THE STORM BREAKS
Midnight, and the rancher had left the house to assist
Rory and Jacques with the sleighs, which had to be packed
with certain necessaries such as tea, coffee, sugar,
bread and flour, frozen meat, pemmican, culinary articles,
snow-shoes, and ammunition.
Dorothy, having made all the preparations she could, had
re-entered the kitchen. The first thing that drew her
attention was the sleeping figure of the sergeant in the
chair. She was filled with self-reproach. Why had she
forgotten all about this wounded, tired-out man? Why did
she always seem to be holding him at arm's-length when
there was, surely, no earthly reason why she should do
so? His manner had always been perfectly courteous to
her, and even deferential. He had done her father many
acts of kindness, without as much as referring to them,
and still, with a spice of perversity, she had always
shrunk from appearing to notice him. She shrewdly suspected
that his present life was not the sort of one he had been
accustomed to, that, in fact, he belonged by birth and
upbringing to a state of things very different from hers.
He looked wretchedly uncomfortable and, doubtless, as
his limbs seemed cramped, they were cold. She would find
a rug to throw over him.
She picked up one, and, with a strange shyness that she
had never experienced before, placed it carefully over
him. If he awoke she would die with terror--now that he
was asleep and did not know that she was looking after
his comfort, she experienced a strange, undefinable
pleasure in so doing. It was quite a new feeling--something
that filled her with a vague wonder.
And then he suddenly opened his eyes, and looked at her
for a few moments without stirring.
"Thank you," he said simply, and closed his eyes again.
She could have cried with vexation. If he had been profuse
in his thanks she would have had an opportunity of cutting
him short with some commonplace comment.
"Hadn't you better lie on the couch, Mr. Pasmore?" she
said. "You don't look as if you fitted that chair, and
it makes you snore so."
She had hardly thought herself capable of such perfidy,
but she did not want him to think that she could be
altogether blind to his faults. He sat bolt upright in
an instant, and stammered out an apology.
But she cut it short. She resented the idea that he should
imagine she took sufficient interest in him to be put
out by a trifle.
At that very moment there rang out a rifle shot from the
ridge just above the wood hard by. It was followed by
another at a greater distance.
"There!" said the girl, with a finger pressed against
her lower lip, and a look as if of relief on her face.
"Now you will have some work to do. They have come sooner
than you expected."
He scanned her face for a moment as if to note how this
quick call to grim tragedy affected her. A man of courage
himself, he instantly read there possibilities of a very
high order and exceptional nerve. There was nothing
neurotic about her. Whatever the wayward imaginings of
her heart might be, she was a fresh, wholesome and healthy
daughter of the prairie, one whose nerves were in accord
with her mind and body, one for whom there were no physical
or imaginary bogeys.
"It won't frighten you, will it, if we have to turn this
kitchen into a sort of shooting gallery?" he asked.
She smiled at the very familiarity with which he handled
his subject.
"It will be unpleasant," she replied simply, "but you
know I'm accustomed to rifles."
"You don't seem to realise what a rising means amongst
savages," he continued. "You must never lose your head,
whatever happens, and you must never trust any one outside
your own family circle. You must never let yourself fall
into their hands; you understand me?"
"I understand," she said, facing him unflinchingly, "and
I have my rifle in case of emergencies."
"You are stronger than I thought," he said thankfully,
looking at her for the first time with unmistakable
admiration.
The rancher entered the room. He had always been noted
for his coolness in time of danger. He looked quickly at
his daughter, and was wonderfully relieved to see her
take the situation so quietly. He kissed her, and said--
"Now, my dear, you'd better get into the other room till
this affair is over. There's no need to be alarmed."
How he wished he could have believed what he said!'
"I'm not frightened, dad, a little bit, and I'm going to
stay right with" you and load the guns."
"Lower the lamp," cried Pasmore, suddenly.
In another minute each man was glancing along the barrel
of his rifle out into the clear moonlight. They faced
the entrance to the valley up which came the enemy. It
was a dimly-defined half-circle, with a deep-blue,
star-studded background. A fringe of trees ran up it,
bordering the frozen creek alongside the trail. Stealthily
stealing up, they could see a number of dark figures.
Every now and again, from the heights above on either
hand, they could see a little jet of fire spurt, and hear
the crack of a Winchester as the Mounted Police on the
look-out tried to pick off members of the attacking body
from their inaccessible point of vantage. But the
half-breeds and Indians contented themselves with firing
an odd shot in order to warn them off. They would deal
with them later. In the meantime they came nearer.
"Ah, St. Croix, old friend! It is my neck you will want
to wring, is it? Eh, bien!" And Jacques chuckled audibly.
"Now, hold hard, and wait until I give you the word,"
said Pasmore, quietly.
The rebels, of whom there might be some thirty or forty,
now came out into the open and approached the house until
they were abreast of the out-buildings. In the clear
moonlight they could be seen distinctly, clad in their
great buffalo coats, with collars up over their ears,
and bearskin and beaver-caps pulled well down.
At a signal from their leader they raised their rifles
to send a preparatory volley through the windows.
"_Now then!_" thundered Pasmore.
Four rifles cracked like one, and three rebels dropped
where they stood, while a fourth, clapping his hands to
the lower part of his body, spun round and round, stamping
his feet, reviling the comrades who had brought him there,
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 ticked
ominously; the girl stood with one hand upon her father's
shoulder, motionless and impassive, like some beautiful
statue. There was no trace of fear of any impending
tragedy to mar the proud serenity of her face. At length
the sound of voices came to them from outside. It grew
in volume and rose like the angry murmur of the sea.
Pasmore was looking through a crack when the noise of
the chopping began again. In another minute there was a
crash of falling timber.
The sergeant turned to the girl.
"Miss Douglas," he said, "will you kindly go into the
other room for a minute! They have cut down one of the
large posts in the shed and are going to make a
battering-ram of it so as to smash in the door. Come
this way, all of you. Two on either side. That is right.
Fire into them as they charge!"