"Here you,
Jones, stick up the edge of your cap, and when they fire at it
I'll put a bullet in the man who pulls the trigger."
Jones thrust up his cap, but they knew too much out there to be
taken in by an old trick. The cap remained unhurt, but when
Jones in his eagerness thrust it higher until he exposed his arm,
his wrist was smashed in an instant by a bullet, and he fell back
with a howl of pain. Wyatt swore and bit his lips savagely. He
and all of them began to fear that they were in another and
tighter trap, one from which there was no escape unless the
Iroquois outside drove off the riflemen, and of that they could
as yet see no sign. The sharpshooters held their place behind
the embankment and the little outhouse, and so little as a
finger, even, at the windows became a sure mark for their
terrible bullets. A Seneca, seeking a new trial for a shot,
received a bullet through the shoulder, and a Tory who followed
him in the effort was slain outright.
The light hitherto had been from the fires, but now the dawn was
coming. Pale gray beams fell over the town, and then deepened
into red and yellow. The beams reached the room where the
beleaguered remains of Wyatt's band fought, but, mingling with
the smoke, they gave a new and more ghastly tint to the desperate
faces.
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