CHAPTER XXXII
THE FIGHT IN THE CABIN
HAD we been given a minute more we would have made it. Running almost shoulder to shoulder, recklessly, not even pausing to glance backward, we were within a hundred feet of the weeds, when horsemen swept about the end of the big tobacco barn, firing as they came, and spurring their mounts desperately in an attempt to head us off. The impossibility of escape in that direction was instantly evident; capture seemed inevitable, yet the sound of those spitting carbines merely served to inspire me with the spirit of resistance. Undoubtedly the end would prove the same, but I meant to fight it out, to do all the damage possible.
"The first cabin, O'Brien! we can make that before they turn."
It was nip and tuck, the surprised troopers wheeling their horses as though on pivots, and digging in the spurs in a mad endeavor to get between us and our haven. O'Brien fell once, tripped, or shot, I know not, but was instantly upon his feet again. I was first over the threshold, stumbling as I made it, and falling forward on the puncheon floor. A rain of bullets crashed into the opposite wall, and, as I struggled to my knees, I caught a glimpse of the circling horsemen without, and of
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