Donald seized his opportunity, and stood up to his full height, exposing his head and shoulders.

“Seguis,” he said, “you're covered. I've come back with my men, and taken possession of your furs. I call upon you to surrender.”

Though a hundred yards away, the amazement depicted on the half-breed's face was apparent. The men behind the barricade had thrust the long, black barrels of their guns through loopholes left for that purpose, and trained them upon the disorganized free-traders.

For a tense minute, there was no reply. Then, Seguis spoke.

“Let me talk a moment with my men, will you?” he asked.

“I'll give you five minutes by the clock.” Donald drew out the queer gold watch that was an heirloom, and held it in his hand while the seconds ticked away. Seguis talked rapidly to his followers.

“Time's up!” Donald snapped at last, shoving the watch back into the fur-lined pocket of his jacket. “What are you going to do? Will you put down your arms peaceably, or shall I fire?”

“Fire and be hanged!” was the instant reply, as Seguis raised his own gun.

Instantly, the ten rifles behind the barricade barked as one. But, in the same second, as though by preconcerted signal, the forty men at the edge of the forest dropped flat on the snow, and the bullets whistled over them. The next moment, they had leaped to their feet, and scrambled into the shelter of trees and brush.

“Well, boys, we're in for it now,” said Donald cheerfully, happier now that battle offered than he had been for many weeks. “They've got us at a disadvantage, and the odds are four to one, so every shot must count.”

“Right-o!” rejoined Timmins, and fell to whistling through his back teeth, a sure sign with him of complete satisfaction.

Then began a grilling wait. Occasionally, a dark form would appear among the trees, speeding from shelter to shelter, and the guns of the besieged would ring out sharply into the still air. More than once, the bullets went home, and the runner leaped into the air with a yell, and rolled over and over upon the snow.

“They're surrounding us,” said Donald calmly. “I hate to do it, but we'll have to use these furs after all, and a fur with a bullet hole in it isn't worth anything.”

He called for volunteers to help him arrange the protection, and, when everyone spoke, told off alternate men to keep the enemy covered while the others worked. The bales of pelts were frozen into the rigidity of iron, and would form an excellent defense, but they were not now in the proper position for this. It was necessary for the men to crawl out over the low line that lay to their rear, and lift other bales back into the “trench” that was formed by the log barricade.

The free-traders in the woods were aware of this necessity for exposure, and waited until a man started on his venturesome journey. Then, they all blazed away at once. McTavish was the first to expose himself. He returned with a bullet hole in his cap, and minus a generous share of one boot-heel. Then, strategy was resorted to. A man would make a feint of rushing from cover. Instantly, the heads of the men in the woods would appear, lying along their gun-barrels, and, in the same instant, the bullets from the barricade would fly thick. After one such feint, three of the enemy did not reappear, and then the foe began to grow cautious, never knowing when the appearance of a head out of the trench meant a feint or an expedition.

It was impossible that such hazardous work should not have tragic results. Trip after trip, Donald made without harm, but his men were not so fortunate. One was killed outright, and another, game to the last, threw himself back among his companions, coughing blood from a bullet hole in the lung, but with two bales of fur in his hands.

The free-traders, by this time, had almost completed their circle, and could fire upon the besieged from every side except that which led down to the lake. Consequently, Donald was forced to cover every direction at once, and could not concentrate more than two rifles upon any one point. Presently, the firing from the woods became hotter, and the Hudson Bay leader, recognizing the symptoms, crawled back and forth in the narrow trench, speaking to his men.

“They're probably going to try and carry our position with a charge. Shoot to kill, but don't shoot one man—Charley Seguis.”

“But, Captain, he's the ringleader,” cried Timmins, annoyed. “If you finish him, the rest of 'em will go to the four winds.”

“I know it,” replied McTavish, “but I must still ask you to spare him. You remember, he saved my life once, although he didn't mean to, and, besides, I have other and better reasons for asking this: reasons that I can't tell you now. In time, you'll all know—if we can get out of this thing alive.”

“Oh, pshaw! We'll get out of it alive all right,” drawled Buxton.

The man had Yankee blood in him somewhere, for now he was chewing tobacco industriously, and staining the snow in front of the barricade, where a loophole between the logs offered him opportunity for marksmanship of varying sorts.

“Here's hoping, boys,” was Donald's rejoinder. “Now, their plan will probably be this: A stiff fire will suddenly be poured in from one quarter to draw our attention there. At the same time, a charge will start from the opposite side, and be upon us before we know it. Watch for it!”

He had hardly got the words out of his mouth, when there was a sudden, fierce volley from the point just back of the black spot where once the warehouse had stood. The men in the trench crouched low.

“Watch that firing, Timmins and Cameron,” was the order. “The rest face the other way.”

The seven fighting men left, swung around, and, in a minute, saw thirty trees suddenly give birth to thirty gray, swift-moving men, who, with guns swinging loosely in their hands swooped down the declivity at alarming speed. Seguis, tall and lithe, led them.

“Fire!” Five of the charging trappers sprawled forward, their arms outstretched, guns flying, and snowshoes plowing the loose snow that covered the surface.

“Fire!” One rifle only responded now: the hammers of the others clicked sharply in unison, but there was no explosion.

Nevertheless, the charge broke into precipitate retreat.

“What's the matter there, boys?”

“Ca'tridges no blame good!” drawled Buxton, trying vainly to stanch the flow of blood where one of his fingers had been carried away. “Prob'ly they're center-fire ca'tridges for rim-fire guns, or vicy-versy.”

McTavish clenched his teeth.

“I might have known it,” he said. “These rebels have collected all the old ammunition they could find and stored it here. Some of 'em have guns made in 1850, I guess.”

Meanwhile, a rapid examination was being made. Buxton was right. While the rifles were center-fire, a great many of the cartridges were rim-fire, and consequently useless unless broken and the powder and ball rammed home as in the old muzzle-loaders. There were, however, among the little mounds of cartridges, many that would fit the guns, and these were sorted with desperate energy in the lull that followed the fighting.

Presently, one of the free-traders, with a piece of blanket tied about his rifle-barrel, appeared in the foreground. The besieged, realizing the spirit in which the sign was offered, agreed that it once might have represented a white flag.

“What do you want?” inquired Donald.

“Want to pick up our dead and wounded.”

“Go ahead. Are you ready to talk surrender yet? I can offer you every consideration, if you don't go on with your tactics.”

“Quit wasting time, McTavish,” cried Seguis, suddenly appearing beside his standard-bearer. “We won't surrender—ever! We want that fort, and we're going to have it. If you get out now, we won't hurt you. If you keep this thing up, I can't promise anything. My Indians here are getting a little excited.”

“All right, if that's the way you feel about it,” Donald retorted. “Turn 'em loose. Say! Pick up your men if you want to, but only two men on the field at once. Number three gets a bullet.”

“All right.”

A moment later, a couple of trappers, unarmed, walked out upon the declivity, and began to haul their dead and wounded comrades back into shelter. During the lull, the besieged filled their belts with what good ammunition there was—ten rounds per man. Bill Thompson wagged his beard sagely over the lamentable situation they now faced, and remarked that it reminded him of a time when he—

“Quick!” rang Donald's alarmed voice. “Through the logs! Fire!”

Without a word, the men, realizing instinctively what had occurred, shoved the noses of their guns through the loopholes and fired pointblank, without aiming, at the band of men that had stealthily crept upon them from behind while the truce negotiations had been going on.

They were barely thirty yards away, and coming fast, but the withering hail of lead that greeted them crumpled their front line as though it were made of paper. The others, unable to see their assailants, wavered a minute, and then broke, with the exception of one man.

“Hold your fire!” was the order, and the fleeing trappers gained the woods unmolested.

Not so the brave Indian who came on. There was nothing of retreat in his make-up. He had started to charge the fort, and take it. The fort was still untaken, and he was still alive—two things that seemed utterly incongruous to his mind.

“Don't fire,” said McTavish.

On the man came, amid absolute silence. He was at the wall of the fort when suddenly Donald rose to his full height, flung up both arms, and yelled at the top of his voice—the familiar manner of stopping a pursuing wild animal. The Indian, instinctively taken aback, halted, and Donald reached over and drew the gun out of the unresisting hand, while a roar of laughter went up. This was too much for the brave, who, with a fearful curse, drew his knife, and cleared the fort wall at a bound. But he died in mid air, for Donald, quicker than he, had swung the man's own musket by the barrel, and brought it down with all his strength upon the fur-covered head. Instantly, a howl went up from the forest, followed by a volley, which McTavish avoided by the speed of his drop into the trench. But others who had been watching were careless, and did not fare so well. Two of the men, one of them old Bill Thompson, dropped dead in their tracks. The man who had been badly wounded in the first fatalities was now out of his misery, and there remained but seven to guard the furs, and the honor of the Hudson Bay Company. The snow inside the barricade was stained with blood.

Donald, quicker than he, had swung the man's own musket by the barrel, and brought it down with all his strength upon the fur-covered head.

But there was no time now to sentimentalize. The dead were passed along from hand to hand and piled at one end, the brave Indian among them. Buxton had lost considerable blood, but he was cheerful, and Timmins whistled continually. Another man had a ball in his left shoulder, and a third had had his cheek grazed.

Of the free-traders it was impossible to say how many were dead or wounded; Donald, after a moment's careful reckoning, felt sure that more than a third of them, if not half, had felt lead.

Now however, Seguis changed his tactics. The next charge came from three points at once, and Donald met it as best he could with three volleys—one at seventy-five yards, another at forty, and a third at ten—when the dark, frenzied faces and flashing eyes of the free-traders were so close that the streaks of yellow flame seemed to shoot out and touch them. The loss was heavy on both sides, and for the first time inside the barricade demoralization reigned. Had the attackers possessed the one necessary extra ounce of heroism, and pressed on to the goal, they could have won it.

Donald himself went down with the shock of a bullet that broke his left arm; two others of his men, who had stood up in the moment of excitement, were dead, and two others severely wounded. Only the unconcerned Timmins had passed through the ordeal unscathed.

“Water! Heavens, I wish I had some water!” grunted Buxton.

“Say, Tim,” called one of the wounded men, “prop me up in front of this hole, and I'll show 'em I'm good yet.”

“Same here,” said the other, weakly.

Timmins went back and forth between them, doing what they wished, and loading their guns. Donald, grinning with the pain of his arm, managed to reload his rifle with his right hand. Buxton, swearing softly to himself, accomplished a like feat.

“For heaven's sake, Cap, let me wing Seguis this time, won't you?” begged Timmins.

“Wing him, yes, but don't kill him. I've got a 'few things I want to straighten out with him, if we ever get out of here alive, and I don't want him dead when I do it, either.”

“All right. Look out! Here they come! They must want this place mighty bad to keep this up.”

Only fifteen men answered Seguis's yell this time, and they did not seem over enthusiastic. But they swept down the little hill swiftly, scattered wide apart.

“Shoot slow and sure,” warned Donald, and a moment later one and another of the attackers began to drop or waver in their tracks. But they came on.

Seguis threw up his arms, and stopped short. Then, he recovered himself, and fought his way onward.

Inside the barricade, Timmins rolled over with a little sigh, and lay still. The logs, chipped and torn by many bullets, were now like a sieve, and one after another of the defenders released his gun, and lay still, or struggled in death throes. Only Buxton and McTavish continued to fire.

This time the wave of advance reached its high mark at the very logs of the fort, and Seguis, with a wild yell, swung his gun with one hand, and leaped. Donald and Buxton struggled up to meet the attack, swearing like madmen; but, just at that moment, unseen by all of them, a line of men appeared at the edge of the woods, knelt quickly, and let loose a volley that laid the attackers low.

Followed an uncanny stillness, which was broken only by the horrid sounds of the wounded and dying. Then, down the little declivity broke fifty men, cheering wildly, and a minute later the Hudson Bay Company took possession of its own. They found McTavish and Buxton pale and open-mouthed, regarding their arrival with blank faces. Behind them, the trench was a shambles. Before the barricade, Seguis sat dazedly, one leg pierced, and an arm helpless because of Timmins's bullet in his shoulder. One or two others rested on their elbows, half-conscious.

The newcomers spoke to McTavish, but he did not seem to hear them: his gaze was riveted on something that had started down the incline. He saw a team of six magnificent dogs, dragging a polished cariole of wonderful workmanship. It was piled with furs, and from the curled enamel lip two little staffs arose, and on them fluttered the red flag of the Hudson Bay Company. Among the furs sat a man with a gray mustache and piercing blue eyes.

“Father!” cried Donald, and fell forward unconscious across the bullet-splintered logs.