CHAPTER IX--THE ARK IN DANGER

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.