Part 50 (2/2)

Down the slope we ran, headed straight for the village. Gunshots now sounded distinctly from the direction of the Court-House; and around us, throughout the whole country, guns popped at intervals, sometimes a single distant report, then a quick succession of shots, like hunters shooting partridges; but we heard as yet no volley-firing.

”Tories and scalpers harrying the outlying farms,” breathed Elerson.

”Look sharp, sir! We're close to the village, and it's full o' Tories.”

Right ahead of us stood a white house; and, as we crossed the hay-field behind it, a man came to the back door, leveled a musket, and deliberately shot at us. Instantly, and before he could spring back, Elerson threw up his rifle and fired, knocking the man headlong through the doorway.

”The impudent son of a s.l.u.t!” he muttered to himself, coolly reloading.

”Count one more Tory in h.e.l.l, Davy, lad!”

Priming, his restless eyes searched the road-hedge ahead, then, ready once more, we broke into a trot, scrambled through the fence, and started down the road, which had already become a village street. It was fairly swarming with men running and dodging about.

The first thing I saw clearly was a dead woman lying across a horse-block. Then I saw a constable named Hugh McMonts running down the street, chased closely by two Indians and a soldier wearing a green uniform. They caught him as we fired, and murdered him in a doorway with hatchet and gun-stock, spattering everything with the poor wretch's brains.

Our impulsive and useless shots had instantly drawn the fire of three red-coated soldiers; and, as the big bullets whistled around us, Elerson grasped my arm, pulled me back, and darted behind a barn.

Through a garden we ran, not stopping to load, through another barnyard, scattering the chickens into frantic flight, then out along a stony way, our ears ringing with the harsh din of the jail bell.

”There's the jail; run for it!” panted Elerson, as we came in sight of the solid stone structure, rising behind its palisades on the high ground.

I sprang across the road and up the slope, battering at the barricaded palings with my rifle-stock, while Elerson ran around the defenses bawling for admittance.

”Hurry, Elerson!” I cried, hammering madly for entrance; ”here come the enemy's baggage-wagons up the street!”

”Jack Mount! Jack Mount! Let us in, ye crazy loon!” shouted Elerson.

Somebody began to unbolt the heavy slab gate; it creaked and swung just wide enough for a man to squeeze through. I shoved Elerson inside and followed, pus.h.i.+ng into a mob of scared militia and panic-stricken citizens toward a huge buckskinned figure at a stockade loophole on the left.

”Jack Mount!” I called, ”where are the women? Are they safe?”

He looked around at me, nodded in a dazed and hesitating manner, then wheeled quick as a flash, and fired through the slit in the logs.

I crawled up to the epaulment and peered down into the dusty street. It was choked with the enemy's baggage-wagons, now thrown into terrible confusion by the shot from Mount's rifle. Horses reared, backed, swerved, swung around, and broke into a terrified gallop; teamsters swore and lashed at their maddened animals, and some batmen, carrying a dead or wounded teamster, flung their limp burden into a wagon, and, seizing the horses' bits, urged them up the hill in a torrent of dust.

I fumbled for my ranger's whistle, set it to my lips, and blew the ”Cease firing!”

”Let them alone!” I shouted angrily at Mount. ”Have you no better work than to waste powder on a parcel of frightened clodhoppers? Send those militiamen to their posts! Two to a loop, yonder! Lively, lads; and see that you fire at nothing except Indians and soldiers. Jack, come up here!”

The big rifleman mounted the ladder and leaped to the rifle-platform, which quivered beneath his weight.

”I thought I'd best sting them once,” he muttered. ”Their main force has circled the town westward toward the Hall. Lord, sir, it was a bad surprise they gave us, for we understood that Willett held them at Tribes Hill!”

I caught his arm in a grip of iron, striving to speak, shaking him to silence.

”Where--where is Miss Grey?” I said hoa.r.s.ely. ”You say the women are safe, do you not?”

”Mr. Renault--sir--” he stammered, ”I have just arrived at the jail--I have not seen your wife.”

<script>