FOR LIFE OR DEATH
“The gate is giving way!” cried one of the frontiersmen, when the
battering ram had struck it once more with tremendous force.
“This way, everybody!” called out Joseph Morris. “We must fight for it
now!”
Half a dozen were already stationed at convenient loopholes and were
pouring in a constant fire on the Frenchmen. Several went down, but the
others kept at the work. Jean Bevoir had furnished them with all they
wished of strong liquor, and many were reckless to the last degree.
On the edge of the forest Moon Eye waited with the majority of the
savage warriors under him. He saw the gate quiver and splinter, and
then, as there came another onslaught, ordered his braves to advance. On
they came, yelling like demons, and sending a flight of arrows over the
stockade.
Sam Barringford was in his element, and from a loophole nearest to the
gate he continued to shoot at the Frenchmen. But some of the attackers
had stuck slabs of wood into their girdles in front, and these slabs
acted as shields.
“They are coming again!” cried Dave. He stood with his eye to a
loophole, his gun smoking from a recent discharge. “They are bound to
get in.”
“Look at the Indians!” shrieked one of the frontiersmen. “They have been
reinforced! There must be half a hundred of them!”
“If they come in, perhaps we had better retreat to the main building,”
suggested Joseph Morris. “We cannot stand up against more than twice our
own number.”
The Indians who had been making the demonstration in the rear of the
trading post, now came around to the front. At the same time the
Frenchmen prepared for a last attack on the gate. On they came with a
force that nothing could resist. Crash! came the battering ram and snap!
crash! went the gate, the oaken bars splitting and breaking and sending
a shower of splinters over those behind. Then the gate went down in the
snow and mud.
“’Tis down! ’Tis down!” Frenchmen and Indians gave a cheer and a yell.
Those who had been handling the battering ram stepped to one side, and
on swept the warriors under Moon Eye, straight for the opening that had
been created in the stockade.
“Hold ’em back!” yelled Sam Barringford, stepping to the center of the
gateway. “Give it to ’em hot! Don’t let a skunk o’ ’em git in!” And he
blazed away at one of the leading Indians. The warrior pitched headlong
and the man behind went down on top of him.
Dave, his uncle, and many of the others, also fired, and four of the red
warriors were either killed or mortally wounded. There was a brief
pause, and then Moon Eye urged his braves to go on.
“Yes! yes!” yelled Jean Bevoir. “At zem! At zem! Keel zem all! A big,
big reward shall be yours if ve capture ze post!”
“Go to the front—do some fighting yourself!” growled Benoit Vascal. He
had received an ugly wound in the forearm.
“I am not afraid,” answered Jean Bevoir, recklessly. He too had been
drinking freely. And forward he rushed, and some of his countrymen with
him, following up the Indians to the gateway of the stockade.
The battle was now on in all its fury. Two of the frontiersmen had been
shot down and Sam Barringford had been struck in the thigh. Dave was on
the point of using the pistol he carried when a warrior hit him in the
side with an arrow.
“Dave!” cried Joseph Morris, in alarm, but could say no more, for he
found himself confronted also, and had to fight his best to save his
life. He was struck by a bullet in the shoulder, but the wound was of
small consequence.
The noise was now terrific, the Indians yelling like demons and the guns
and pistols being discharged freely. Some of the contestants were at it
hand-to-hand, with hunting knives, tomahawks, and clubs. Slowly but
surely the English were driven back from the gateway, and Indians and
French began to crowd into the trading post enclosure.
“We can’t keep this up! They are too many for us!” gasped one of the
frontiersmen. The blood was pouring from a cut in his cheek. “It’s three
or four to one!”
“It’s for life or death!” came from another. “Don’t give in! The Indians
will show no mercy! We must fight to a finish!”
All realized the truth of the speaker’s remarks. The Indians would
surely kill them all or else make them prisoners first and torture them
to death afterwards. It would be better to die fighting than to allow
themselves to be captured.
In the midst of the noise and excitement a yell was heard from the
forest, and then followed several scattering shots. No one paid
attention to these for the minute, but soon came a yell that caused the
Indians under Moon Eye to listen in consternation. It was the war-cry of
the Delawares, and it told that they were about to enter the fray.
“What’s that?” came from Joseph Morris.
“I know what it is!” yelled Dave. His heart gave a bound. “That is White
Buffalo’s war-whoop!”
“White Buffalo is comin’!” came from Sam Barringford. He gave an
answering cry at the top of his lungs. “I only hope he has a good
followin’! We need ’em!”
The band under White Buffalo was coming forward on a run, firing
rapidly. With the aged chief was Henry, who had cast aside the blanket,
forgetting in his excitement that he was soaked from his involuntary
bath in the river.
“Give it to ’em!” shouted Henry, firing a gun that had been given to
him. “Shoot ’em down! They deserve it! And don’t let any of the
Frenchmen get away!”
The Delawares came up directly behind Moon Eye’s band, and their first
volley of shots and arrows laid four of the enemy low. Then they fired
once more and closed in with hunting knives and hatchets, doing fearful
execution. In the midst of the slaughter was White Buffalo, his teeth
set, his eyes flashing, and his whole demeanor the personification of
courage and daring. Of all the whites he had ever known, the Morrises
were his dearest friends, and he was more than ready to lay down his
life for them.
The coming of White Buffalo with his band gave fresh courage to Joseph
Morris and those under him, and they renewed with vigor the fight they
were making in the trading post yard. In the meantime the Indians under
Moon Eye and the Frenchmen scarcely knew what to do.
“The Delawares have come to give us battle!” cried one of Moon Eye’s
under chiefs.
“They are strong and fresh!” added another, who was sorely wounded in
the leg.
“We are hemmed in!” came from one of the Frenchmen. “Reinforcements for
the post have arrived!”
Loud yells and more shots drowned out the words spoken after that. The
din became louder than ever and the smoke rolled upward from every
direction. Henry was in a fierce hand-to-hand fight with one of the
Indians when Benoit Vascal limped past.
“Ha! It ees you!” shrieked the Frenchman, and made a lunge at Henry with
his hunting knife. But at that moment White Buffalo threw his tomahawk
at Vascal. The rascal received a glancing blow that stretched him
senseless. Then over his body rushed some Indians, and he was, for the
time being, forgotten.
The coming of the Delawares was disconcerting to Jean Bevoir. It came at
a moment when he had felt certain victory would soon rest with himself
and Moon Eye. He and his followers were practically caught, some inside
of the gateway and some outside, and knew not how to turn. A galling
fire was poured into them by the newcomers, and fully a dozen Indians
and Frenchmen went down never to rise again. Bevoir was hit in the
shoulder and later received a knife stab in the side.
For fully ten minutes the battle continued, but then, as he saw his
warriors being slaughtered, Moon Eye lost heart, and sounded the
retreat. The Indians under him got out of the gateway as best they could
and scattered to the right and left, some running along the river and
others taking to the shelter of the forest.
“After them!” said White Buffalo, to his braves, in his native tongue.
“Let not one of them escape. They are vile creatures, not fit to live,
enemies of us all!” And away went his braves after the others, following
Moon Eye’s men for over a mile and killing fully half of them. Moon Eye
himself was struck by a bullet in the back and fell, and a few minutes
later White Buffalo finished the rascal with his tomahawk.
As soon as they saw that their Indian allies were retreating, the
Frenchmen also tried to retire. All told they now numbered five,
including Jean Bevoir. They sneaked along the stockade until they came
to a point nearest to the mighty forest and then made a break for the
trees. Those at the post fired several shots after them, but these did
no harm.
“Where is Jean Bevoir?” asked Joseph Morris, as the battle came to an
end.
“He got away,” answered Barringford, who was panting from his exertions.
“Drat the luck! He’ll come back, I reckon, to make more trouble for us
some other time.”
“Dave, you are wounded,” said his uncle.
“It doesn’t matter,” answered the youth, bravely. “Oh, how glad I am
that White Buffalo came up! We should have lost had it not been for him
and his warriors.”
“He has gone after what’s left of the other redskins,” said one of the
frontiersmen. “I hope he kills them all!”
Joseph Morris and Dave were overjoyed to see Henry back again and gave
the youth a warm greeting. Torches were lit, and a list made of the dead
and wounded, and the latter were made as comfortable as possible.
“I vote to go after Jean Bevoir,” said Dave. “I must catch that man and
make him tell me all he knows about father.”
“An’ I am with ye, lad,” said Barringford. “It ain’t right to let thet
hound git away. He has caused all o’ us trouble enough.”
“We cannot go away and leave the post alone,” said Joseph Morris.
“Bevoir might come back in the meantime and take possession.”
“We can fool him,” said Dave. “Let us raise the gate and fasten it in
some manner and then leave a few men on guard. He won’t know but what
all of us are inside.”
This was considered a good plan, and leaving the dead where they had
fallen, those able to work quickly set the broken gate into place and
propped it fast with some heavy logs. Then seven of the party, including
the planter, Barringford, Dave, and Henry, left the post and took to the
forest in the direction Jean Bevoir and his followers had gone.
“Be careful,” warned Sam Barringford. “We don’t want to run into a trap.
Remember, Jean Bevoir is foxy, an’ always was.”
The night was still fairly clear, and they followed the trail through
the wet snow with ease. Evidently the Frenchman had not imagined that he
would be pursued, and so had not taken any precautions to hide his
tracks. The trail led straight forward for nearly a mile, then curved in
the direction of the river.
“I believe he is bound for that Indian village I was at,” said Henry,
who had, during the brief rest at the post, donned some dry clothing.
“Perhaps he hopes to get aid there. Well, he will be disappointed, I
think, although I am not sure.”
As they drew closer to the village they advanced with increased caution,
and each member of the party looked to make sure that his weapons were
in proper order. All were tired out, and each was more or less wounded,
but none thought of giving up the task they had undertaken.
Dave was particularly eager to meet Bevoir and, if possible, make the
rascally French trader a prisoner. He felt that Bevoir was the only one
to give him all the particulars of his father’s death and burial, and he
felt that if the Frenchman got away now he might remain away forever.
At last they saw a distant gleam of light through the forest and knew
that the Indian camp was not far off. They moved ahead slower than ever.
“I see somebody moving around!” cried Dave, in a low voice. “I think it
is an Indian.”
“I see two Indians,” said Sam Barringford. “But they are old men and
unarmed.”
They drew closer still, until only a fringe of bushes hid the dark camp
from view. The campfire had burned low, and they could see that the most
of the wigwams had been taken down. Evidently what was left of the tribe
were getting ready to leave that vicinity.
Presently they heard sounds from the opposite side of the camp, and two
Indians and three Frenchmen appeared, leading a number of horses.
“There is Jean Bevoir now,” whispered Henry.
“Yes, and those horses are our own,” answered his father.
The horses were stopped at the doorway of one of the wigwams and an
Indian went in, to appear a moment later leading the sick man whom Henry
had seen but a few hours before.
“Where are you going to take me?” asked the man, feebly.
“You vill know zat in ze morning,” answered Jean Bevoir. “You shall ride
a horse.”
Then Bevoir entered another wigwam. Soon he came forth, dragging another
man by the arm.
“Don’t!” gasped the man, feebly. “Don’t! I—I cannot stand it! Have a
little mercy, Bevoir, I—I beg of you!” And the man fell in a heap.
“Git up!” roared Jean Bevoir, savagely. “You shall come with me. Dead or
alive, I shall take you avay!”
“See! see!” shrieked Dave, forgetting himself completely. “See, it is my
father! Jean Bevoir, let him alone, or I’ll shoot you on the spot!”