The Indians who had been making the demonstration in the rear of the trading post, now came around to the front. At the same time the Frenchmen prepared for a last attack on the gate. On they came with a force that nothing could resist. Crash! came the battering ram and snap! crash! went the gate, the oaken bars splitting and breaking and sending a shower of splinters over those behind. Then the gate went down in the snow and mud. “’Tis down! ’Tis down!” Frenchmen and Indians gave a cheer and a yell. Those who had been handling the battering ram stepped to one side, and on swept the warriors under Moon Eye, straight for the opening that had been created in the stockade. “Hold ’em back!” yelled Sam Barringford, stepping to the center of the gateway. “Give it to ’em hot! Don’t let a skunk o’ ’em git in!” And he blazed away at one of the leading Indians. The warrior pitched headlong and the man behind went down on top of him. Dave, his uncle, and many of the others, also fired, and four of the red warriors were either killed or mortally wounded. There was a brief pause, and then Moon Eye urged his braves to go on. “Yes! yes!” yelled Jean Bevoir. “At zem! At zem! Keel zem all! A big, big reward shall be yours if ve capture ze post!” “Go to the front—do some fighting yourself!” growled Benoit Vascal. He had received an ugly wound in the forearm. “I am not afraid,” answered Jean Bevoir, recklessly. He too had been drinking freely. And forward he rushed, and some of his countrymen with him, following up the Indians to the gateway of the stockade. The battle was now on in all its fury. Two of the frontiersmen had been shot down and Sam Barringford had been struck in the thigh. Dave was on the point of using the pistol he carried when a warrior hit him in the side with an arrow. “Dave!” cried Joseph Morris, in alarm, but could say no more, for he found himself confronted also, and had to fight his best to save his life. He was struck by a bullet in the shoulder, but the wound was of small consequence. The noise was now terrific, the Indians yelling like demons and the guns and pistols being discharged freely. Some of the contestants were at it hand-to-hand, with hunting knives, tomahawks, and clubs. Slowly but surely the English were driven back from the gateway, and Indians and French began to crowd into the trading post enclosure. “We can’t keep this up! They are too many for us!” gasped one of the frontiersmen. The blood was pouring from a cut in his cheek. “It’s three or four to one!” “It’s for life or death!” came from another. “Don’t give in! The Indians will show no mercy! We must fight to a finish!” All realized the truth of the speaker’s remarks. The Indians would surely kill them all or else make them prisoners first and torture them to death afterwards. It would be better to die fighting than to allow themselves to be captured.