He tore a strip
from the inside of his coat, bound it about his head, and went on
with the defense.
A Mohawk, frightfully painted, fired from the other window. Like
a flash came the return shot, and the Indian fell back in the
room, stone dead, with a bullet through his bead.
"That was Ware himself," said Wyatt. "I told you he was the best
shot of them all. I give him that credit. But they're all good.
Look out! There goes another of our men! It was Ross who did
that! I tell you, be careful! Be careful!"
It was an Onondaga who fell this time, and he lay with his head
on the window sill until another Indian pulled him inside. A
minute later a Tory, who peeped guardedly for a shot, received a
bullet through his head, and sank down on the floor. A sort of
terror spread among the others. What could they do in the face
of such terrible sharpshooting? It was uncanny, almost
superhuman, and they looked stupidly at one another. Smoke from
their own firing had gathered in the room, and it formed a
ghastly veil about their faces. They heard the crash of the
rifles outside from every point, but no help came to them.
"We're bound to do something!" exclaimed Wyatt.
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