In the trail behind the sledges trotted a score and a half of fur-
clad figures.
"It's Blake!" exclaimed Philip.
Anderson drew himself away from the wall. In his eyes burned a
curious greenish flame, and his face was set with the hardness of
iron. In that iron was molded indistinctly the terrible smile with
which he always went into battle or fronted "his man." Slowly he
turned, pointing a long arm at each of the four walls of the
cabin.
"That's the lay of the fight," he said, making his words short and
to the point. "They can come at us on all sides, and so I've made
a six-foot gun-crevice in each wall. We can't count on Armin for
anything but the use of a club if it comes to close quarters. The
walls are built of saplings and they've got guns out there that
get through. Outside of that we've got one big advantage. The
little devils are superstitious about fighting at night, and even
Blake can't force them into it. Blake is the man I was after when
I ran across Armin and his people. GAD!"
There was an unpleasant snap in his voice as he peered through the
gun-hole again.
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