"We've got to fight!" exclaimed Wyatt. "We can't sit here and be
taken like beasts in a trap! Suppose we unbar the doors below
and make a rush for it?"
Coleman shook his head. "Every one of us would be killed within
twenty yards," he said.
"Then the Iroquois must come back," cried Wyatt. "Where is Joe
Brant? Where is Timmendiquas, and where is that coward, Sir John
Johnson? Will they come?"
"They won't come," said Coleman.
They lay still awhile, listening to the firing in the town, which
swayed hither and thither. The smoke in the room thinned
somewhat, and the daylight broadened and deepened. As a
desperate resort they resumed fire from the windows, but three
more of their number were slain, and, bitter with chagrin, they
crouched once more on the floor out of range. Wyatt looked at
the figures of the living and the dead. Savage despair tore at
his heart again, and his hatred of those who bad done this
increased. It was being served out to him and his band as they
had served it out to many a defenseless family in the beautiful
valleys of the border. Despite the sharpshooters, he took
another look at the window, but kept so far back that there was
no chance for a shot.
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