friends of the Mooseheads!" "We die!" We die!"
An old crone started the death chant and in a moment it was taken up by every Brushwood behind the barricade. It rose and mingled in a weird phantasmagoria of horror with the war cry of the Yellow Knives, the crash of rifles, and the shrieks of the stricken Mooseheads. The events of the next few moments transpired with bewildering rapidity. Connie saw the Yellow Knives fall upon the surprised Mooseheads; saw the Mooseheads go down like grain before the reaper. He saw a few stragglers turn and dash for the forest, only to be pursued and stricken to the last man. Then, old White Eagle himself leaped over the barricade and picked Connie up in his arms—and his warriors followed, all yelling and howling and singing their wild chant of victory.
The death chant died on the lips of the Brushwoods and they gazed in stupid wonder into the faces of their ancient enemies—these wild, fierce enemies who had rushed to their aid upon the word of the small, white policeman.
Next day came Sergeant Dan McKeever and Corporal Rickey, and the prospectors who had
