en the logs and found
the forest and the little finger of plain between straight in his
vision. The edge of the timber was alive with men. There must have been
half a hundred of them, and they were making no effort to conceal
themselves. For the first time Olaf began to give him an understanding
of the situation.

"This is the fortieth day we've held them off," he said, in the
quick-cut, business-like voice he might have used in rendering a report
to a superior. "Eighty cartridges to begin with and a month's ration of
grub for two. All but the three last cartridges went day before
yesterday. Yesterday everything quiet. On the edge of starvation this
morning when I went out on scout duty and to take a chance at game.
Surprised a couple of them carrying meat and had a tall fight. Others
hove into action and I had to use two of my cartridges. One left--and
they're showing themselves because they know we don't dare to use
ammunition at long range. My caliber is thirty-five. What's yours?"

"The same," replied Philip quickly, his blood beginning to thrill with
the anticipation of battle. "I'll give you half. I'm on duty from Fort
Churchill, off on a tangent of my own." He did not take his eyes from
the slit in the wall as he told Anderson in a hundred words what had
happened since his meeting with Bram Johnson. "And with forty
cartridges we'll give 'em a taste of hell," he added.

He caught his breath, and the last word half choked itself from his
lips. He knew that Anderson was staring as hard as he. Up from the
river and over the level sweep of plain between it and the timber came
a sledge, followed by a second, a third, and a fourth. 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