And above, through the darkened loophole of the attic
window, Sokwenna’s ferret eyes had caught the
movement of a shadow in the gray mist, and his rifle
sent its death-challenge once more to John Graham and
his men. What followed struck a smile from Mary’s
lips, and a moaning sob rose from her breast as she
watched the man she loved rise up before the open
window to face the winged death that was again beating
a tattoo against the log walls of the cabin.
That in the lust and passion of his designs and the
arrogance of his power John Graham was not afraid
to overstep all law and order, and that he believed
Holt would shelter Mary Standish from injury and death,
there could no longer be a doubt after the first few
swift moments following Sokwenna’s rifle-shots
from the attic window.
Through the window of the lower room, barricaded by
the cautious old warrior until its aperture was not
more than eight inches square, Alan thrust his rifle
as the crash of gun-fire broke the gray and thickening
mist of night. He could hear the thud and hiss
of bullets; he heard them singing like angry bees
as they passed with the swiftness of chain-lightning
over the cabin roof, and their patter against the log
walls was like the hollow drumming of knuckles against
the side of a ripe watermelon. There was something
fascinating and almost gentle about that last sound.
It did not seem that the horror of death was riding
with it, and Alan lost all sense of fear as he stared
in the direction from which the firing came, trying
to make out shadows at which to shoot. Here and
there he saw dim, white streaks, and at these he fired
as fast as he could throw cartridges into the chamber
and pull the trigger. Then he crouched down with
the empty gun. It was Mary Standish who held
out a freshly loaded weapon to him. Her face was
waxen in its deathly pallor. Her eyes, staring
at him so strangely, never for an instant leaving
his face, were lustrous with the agony of fear that
flamed in their depths. She was not afraid for
herself. It was for him. His name
was on her lips, a whisper unspoken, a breathless
prayer, and in that instant a bullet sped through the
opening in front of which he had stood a moment before,
a hissing, writhing serpent of death that struck something
behind them in its venomous wrath. With a cry
she flung up her arms about his bent head.
“My God, they will kill you if you stand there!”
she moaned. “Give me up to them, Alan.
If you love me—give me up!”
A sudden spurt of white dust shot out into the dim
candle-glow, and then another, so near Nawadlook that
his blood went cold. Bullets were finding their
way through the moss and earth chinking between the
logs of the cabin. His arms closed in a fierce
embrace about the girl’s slim body, and before
she could realize what was happening, he leaped to
the trap with her and almost flung her into its protection.
Then he forced Nawadlook down beside her, and after
them he thrust in the empty gun and the apron with
its weight of cartridges. His face was demoniac
in its command.
