lodge-poles and tree-trunks of the barrier. It, too, stopped at his feet, where it lay with mouth open and a smallish blue hole over the left eye.
The man was Toad Jones.
Connie saw all this as he jerked at the lever of his carbine, pumping fresh shells into the chamber and firing through his loophole. Saw, also, other bodies lying close along the inside of the barricade. He was not afraid—was not even excited. The whole thing was unreal—like the climax of a great play. Only at first were his nerves out of control—when he had dodged at the whine of the bullets. He was firing faster, now—his carbine barrel was hot—it burned his fingers, and he spit on his hand. He picked up Toad Jones's rifle and fired till it was empty—then his own carbine was thrust into his hand, reloaded, and a squaw caught up the empty rifle. The yellow painted bodies of the Mooseheads were close to the barrier, now, and they pitched forward as he fired,—but, their places were taken by others—always, there were more.
The poles above him moved. He glanced upward into the glaring eyeballs of a hideously painted face. Connie could see the yellow teeth behind the lips drawn wide in a great oblong of ferocity. The
