Had the four defenders of the front of the “castle” been slain or
disabled through the loopholes by Howling Wolf and his three
companions, these would have got on the roof safely enough, and
might have been able to cause a sufficient diversion, and hold their
own there long enough, to enable their fellow-braves in the canoes
to come up.
But Sergeant Dick, quick to recover from the startling _coup de
main_, promptly thrust his rifle out through his loophole again, and
trained it on the brave nearest him. The man was in the act of
clambering up one of the middle pillars of the verandah.
Crack! The weapon spoke almost simultaneously, and, with a shrill
howl of pain, the Indian--none other than Howling Wolf himself--let
go his grip of the verandah roof, which he had just seized with one
hand, and slid down the pole as swiftly as if it were greased. He no
sooner touched the verandah again with his heels than he either
flung himself or fell headlong off it into the water.
Sergeant Dick swerved his rifle quickly on the man’s plunge, and let
fly at another of the invaders swarming up a pillar. A second
scream, of even bitterer agony, told every ear within hearing that
that shot also had found a true billet.
On that, one of the two remaining braves, who had gained the
comparative safety of the roof--thanks to the assistance of the side
railings and the consternation and unreadiness of the other three
defenders of the living-room--took a flying jump or dive into the
lake astern of the ark, evidently too scared to take advantage of
the situation he had won.
And a second or two later, the fourth Indian, not caring to remain
behind by himself, followed suit.
Then, even as Bella and Deborah, the two daughters-in-law of the
squatter, came rushing after Jenny into the living-room from the
back of the “castle,” to learn if their father and mother were hurt,
the rifles of the four brothers rang out and partly drowned the mad
yelling of the redmen paddling frantically for the spot.
“It’s all right, gals. Me and the old woman air not a bit hurt.” Old
Alf reassured his daughters-in-law and the weeping Jenny. “The old
woman’s had her forelock shorn off, but her scalp’s safe, and she
can wear a false front till the ’air grows ag’in. How are you,
Muriel, gal, and you, sergeant?”
“I’m unhurt, uncle,” gasped Muriel. “The knife only went through my
hair. It’s brought some of it down, and cut some of it; but that’s
all right. Did you escape scot free also, sergeant?”
“Not altogether, I must admit. It is nothing, however; the knife
blade just grazed my left cheek. Never mind that. Back to your
loops, every one of you, quick, or we’ll have the whole band of
redskins clambering over the palisades or breaking open the gate in
them. Ah! quick! Howling Wolf and the braves with him are trying to
make off with the ark!”
He was the only one of the four defenders of the living-room who had
not quitted his post or loophole.
The squatter, on hearing his wife cry out as the tomahawk shore away
her hair so close to her scalp, had at once turned his eyes in her
direction. He saw her fall heavily backwards, for so startled and
horrified was she that for the moment she did not quite comprehend
the narrow escape she had had and almost believed the top of her
skull had been cleft clean away.
The ax tore some of the hairs out by the roots in its passage as
well as cut others clean asunder, and the sudden wrench and sharp,
poignant pain of it, on top of her surprise and the horror of seeing
the ax flashing apparently straight for her forehead, practically
deprived her, strong, masculine woman though she generally was, of
the power of her limbs, and bowled her over like an actual blow.
Fully believing her killed--brained by the weapon--her husband and
Muriel had uttered cries of horror and grief unutterable, and flown
to her side. This accounted for Sergeant Dick being the only one to
fire upon the four daring invaders of the verandah.
At Dick’s fresh admonition and alarm, Aunt Kate, Uncle Alf, Muriel,
and the two sisters-in-law, with Jenny--all six--at once rushed to
the three loopholes before them--that is on the east side of the
front door--and peered out through these.
Before they could do so, there rattled out, above the firing from
the other quarters of the house, the sharp incessant popping of
Sergeant Dick’s service revolver.
Old Alf was the first of his party to look forth, and he saw--first,
the brave whom the sergeant had killed while climbing up the pillar,
lying stiff and motionless upon the verandah, and then the ark, in
the thick darkness, slowly swinging round her stern away from the
“castle.”
The craft was still fast by her head to the verandah, but she was no
longer lying parallel alongside this, but turning her stern away, so
as to lie at right angles to it.
Hanging head downwards over the stern bulwark, still in sight, was
the form of an Indian, and a great dark stain was growing in size
just below him upon the ark’s ribs. The hand of a second redskin
projected at a sharp, unnatural angle above the bulwark alongside.
Sergeant Dick, keeping watchful vigil at his loop, when the others
in the front of the premises had deserted theirs, had suddenly seen
three dusky forms rise above the off stern-quarter bulwark of the
ark, writhe or bound aboard with the swiftness and silence of cats
or snakes, and make a combined rush for the mooring-rope aft.
Before the sergeant had time to draw a bead upon any of the trio,
one Indian was slashing at the rope with a tomahawk, while the other
two were pushing hard, with their dripping rifles, upon the side of
the verandah, so as not only to tauten the mooring rope, and enable
their comrade the better to cut it, but also to get “way” or motion
on the craft’s stern, and force her round “head on” to the “castle”
as quickly as possible.
The rope parted at the second slash. The first indeed might have
done the trick had the savage wielding the tomahawk only been a
little less excited and eager; for no doubt the weapon was as
keen-bitted as a razor.
Even as the rope was severed, Sergeant Dick’s revolver began to
speak, and the two braves thrusting the craft away from the verandah
with their rifles crumpled up and fell dead. They dropped their
pieces over the side, and one of them nearly followed his weapon.
The third Indian--he who had wielded the ax--did not give the
sergeant a chance to hit him. At the first crack of the revolver, he
wheeled and stooping low--almost double--bolted, jumping from side
to side as he ran, round the deckhouse, and got behind it.
Along either side of the deckhouse ran a foot-board, about a foot
wide, on top of the bulwarks, with a handrail above to enable a
person to pass safely from stem to stern. Short ladders, fore and
aft, also gave easy access to the roof of the ark, which was not
high peaked or gabled like the conventional toy ark, but gently
rounded like a railway carriage-roof, or that of the cabin of a
small yacht.
It was Howling Wolf, the intrepid and enterprising, if ferocious,
Indian chief, who had again escaped the deadly fire of Sergeant
Dick. He had been only slightly wounded in his attempt to scale the
roof of the “castle.” The bullet had grazed his thigh, but the
sudden smart had momentarily paralyzed the muscles of the leg, and
so brought him down at a run.
The limb was now almost as good as his other leg--warmed up, as he
was with the battle fever, and thirsting to avenge the smart and the
loss of his braves.
This was the position of affairs when the other occupants of the
living-room of the “castle” looked out of the loopholes.
Before them was the ark, still held fast by the mooring-rope in the
bows, turning slowly at right angles to them with the drift of the
current, accelerated by the little “way” or push given to her stern
by the two Indians whom the sergeant had shot down. And round the
other side of the deckhouse, screened by it from the rifle-fire of
the rightful owners of the craft, was Howling Wolf, whose ax could
already be heard crashing upon the stout, sheet-iron-lined shutter
of the cabin window beside him.
All around, in the inky blackness, invisible canoes were speeding
up, propelled by madly whooping redskins, none of whom was replying
save by shouting, to the wild random shooting of the besieged.