"We're bound to do something!" exclaimed Wyatt."Here you, Jones, stick up the edge of your cap, and when they fire at it I'll put a bullet in the man who pulls the trigger."Jones thrust up his cap, but they knew too much out there to be taken in by an old trick.The cap remained unhurt, but when Jones in his eagerness thrust it higher until he exposed his arm, his wrist was smashed in an instant by a bullet, and he fell back with a howl of pain.Wyatt swore and bit his lips savagely.He and all of them began to fear that they were in another and tighter trap, one from which there was no escape unless the Iroquois outside drove off the riflemen, and of that they could as yet see no sign.The sharpshooters held their place behind the embankment and the little outhouse, and so little as a finger, even, at the windows became a sure mark for their terrible bullets.A Seneca, seeking a new trial for a shot, received a bullet through the shoulder, and a Tory who followed him in the effort was slain outright.
The light hitherto had been from the fires, but now the dawn was coming.Pale gray beams fell over the town, and then deepened into red and yellow.The beams reached the room where the beleaguered remains of Wyatt's band fought, but, mingling with the smoke, they gave a new and more ghastly tint to the desperate faces.
"We've got to fight!" exclaimed Wyatt."We can't sit here and be taken like beasts in a trap! Suppose we unbar the doors below and make a rush for it?"Coleman shook his head."Every one of us would be killed within twenty yards," he said.
"Then the Iroquois must come back," cried Wyatt."Where is Joe Brant? Where is Timmendiquas, and where is that coward, Sir John Johnson? Will they come?""They won't come," said Coleman.
They lay still awhile, listening to the firing in the town, which swayed hither and thither.The smoke in the room thinned somewhat, and the daylight broadened and deepened.As a desperate resort they resumed fire from the windows, but three more of their number were slain, and, bitter with chagrin, they crouched once more on the floor out of range.Wyatt looked at the figures of the living and the dead.Savage despair tore at his heart again, and his hatred of those who bad done this increased.It was being served out to him and his band as they had served it out to many a defenseless family in the beautiful valleys of the border.Despite the sharpshooters, he took another look at the window, but kept so far back that there was no chance for a shot.
"Two of them are slipping away," he exclaimed."They are Ross and the one they call Long Jim! I wish I dared a shot! Now they're gone!"They lay again in silence for a time.There was still firing in the town, and now and then they heard shouts.Wyatt looked at his lieutenant, and his lieutenant looked at him.
"Yours is the ugliest face I ever saw," said Wyatt.
"I can say the same of yours-as I can't see mine," said Coleman.
The two gazed once more at the hideous, streaked, and grimed faces of each other, and then laughed wildly.A wounded Seneca sitting with his back against the wall began to chant a low, wailing death song.
"Shut up! Stop that infernal noise!" exclaimed Wyatt savagely.
The Seneca stared at him with fixed, glassy eyes and continued his chant.Wyatt turned away, but that song was upon his nerves.
He knew that everything was lost.The main force of the Iroquois would not come back to his help, and Henry Ware would triumph.
He sat down on the floor, and muttered fierce words under his breath.
"Hark!" suddenly exclaimed Coleman."What is that?"A low crackling sound came to their ears, and both recognized it instantly.It was the sound of flames eating rapidly into wood, and of that wood was built the house they now held.Even as they listened they could hear the flames leap and roar into new and larger life.
"This is, what those two, Ross and Hart, were up to!" exclaimed Wyatt."We're not only trapped, but we're to be burned alive in our trap!""Not I," said Coleman, "I'm goin' to make a rush for it.""It's the only thing to be done," said Wyatt."Come, all of you that are left!"The scanty survivors gathered around him, all but the wounded Seneca, who sat unmoved against the wall and continued to chant his death chant.Wyatt glanced at him, but said nothing.Then he and the others rushed down the stairs.
The lower room was filled with smoke, and outside the flames were roaring.They unbarred the door and sprang into the open air.Ashower of bullets met them.The Tory, Coleman, uttered a choking cry, threw up his arms, and fell back in the doorway.Braxton Wyatt seized one of the smaller men, and, holding him a moment or two before him to receive the fire of his foe, dashed for the corner of the blazing building.The man whom he held was slain, and his own shoulder was grazed twice, but he made the corner.
In an instant he put the burning building between him and his pursuers, and ran as he had never run before in all his life, deadly fear putting wings on his heels.As he ran he heard the dull boom of a cannon, and he knew that tile American army was entering the Seneca Castle.Ahead of him he saw the last of the Indians fleeing for the woods, and behind him the burning house crashed and fell in amid leaping flames and sparks in myriads.
He alone had escaped from the house.
