The little
log houses of the town came out, the sapling palings and the bare
trees,--all grim and gaunt at that cruel season. Cattle lowed here and
there, and horses whinnied to be fed.
It was a dirty, gray dawn, and we waited until it had done its best.
From where we lay hid behind log house and palings we strained our eyes
towards the prairie to see if Lamothe would take the bait, until our view
was ended at the fuzzy top of a hillock. Bill Cowan, doubled up behind a
woodpile and breathing heavily, nudged me.
"Davy, Davy, what d'ye see!"
Was it a head that broke the line of the crest? Even as I stared,
breathless, half a score of forms shot up and were running madly for the
stockade. Twenty more broke after them, Indians and Frenchmen, dodging,
swaying, crowding, looking fearfully to right and left. And from within
the fort came forth a hubbub,--cries and scuffling, orders, oaths, and
shouts. In plain view of our impatient Deckards soldiers manned the
platform, and we saw that they were flinging down ladders. An officer in
a faded scarlet coat stood out among the rest, shouting himself hoarse.
Involuntarily Cowan lined his sights across the woodpile on this mark of
color.
Lamothe's men, a seething mass, were fighting like wolves for the
ladders, fearful yet that a volley might kill half of them where they
stood.
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