as no explosion.

Nevertheless, the charge broke into precipitate retreat.

"What's the matter there, boys?"

"Ca'tridges no blame good!" drawled Buxton, trying vainly to stanch
the flow of blood where one of his fingers had been carried away.
"Prob'ly they're center-fire ca'tridges for rim-fire guns, or
vicy-versy."

McTavish clenched his teeth.

"I might have known it," he said. "These rebels have collected all
the old ammunition they could find and stored it here. Some of 'em
have guns made in 1850, I guess."

Meanwhile, a rapid examination was being made. Buxton was right.
While the rifles were center-fire, a great many of the cartridges
were rim-fire, and consequently useless unless broken and the powder
and ball rammed home as in the old muzzle-loaders. There were,
however, among the little mounds of cartridges, many that would
fit the guns, and these were sorted with desperate energy in the
lull that followed the fighting.

Presently, one of the free-traders, with a piece of blanket tied
about his rifle-barrel, appeared in the foreground. The besieged,
realizing the spirit in which the sign was offered, agreed that it
once might have represented a white flag.

"What do you want?" inquired Donald.

"Want to pick up our dead and wounded."

"Go ahead. Are you ready to talk surrender yet? I can offer you
every consideration, if you don't go on with your tactics."

"Quit wasting time, McTavish," cried Seguis, suddenly appearing
beside his standard-bearer. "We won't surrender--ever! We want
that fort, and we're going to have it. If you get out now, we won't
hurt you. If you keep this thing up, I can't promise anything. My
Indians here are getting a little excited."

"All right, if that's the way you feel about it," Donald retorted.
"Turn 'em loose. Say! Pick up your men if you want to, but only
two men on the field at once. Number three gets a bullet."

"All right."

A moment later, a couple of trappers, unarmed, walked out upon the
declivity, and began to haul their dead and wounded comrades back
into shelter. During the lull, the besieged filled their belts
with what good ammunition there was--ten rounds per man. Bill
Thompson wagged his beard sagely over the lamentable situation they
now faced, and remarked that it reminded him of a time when he--

"Quick!" rang Donald's alarmed voice. "Through the logs! Fire!"

Without a word, the men, realizing instinctively what had occurred,
shoved the nose