ose as on air, shot over the wall, and dropped into a
crumpled heap upon the snow at its base. The face of Big Lena framed
by flying strands of flaxen hair appeared for a moment above the wall,
and then the sound of a shot rang sharp and clear. The face
disappeared, and from beyond the wall came the muffled thud of a heavy
body striking the snow.

A dark head appeared above the walls at the point near where the girl
had fallen, and an arm was thrust over the logs. MacNair caught the
glint of a blue-black barrel. Like a flash he drew his automatic and
fired. The revolver dropped from the top of the wall to the snow, and
the hand that held it gripped frantically at the logs and disappeared.

MacNair threw back his head, and loud and clear on the frosty air
blared the call of the wolf. The whole line of the forest spit flame.
The crash and roar of a hundred guns was in the air as the men from
behind the barricade replied. Lithe forms carrying ladders dashed
across the open space. Many pitched forward before the wall and lay
doubled grotesquely upon the white strip of snow, while eager hands
carried the ladders on.

Suddenly, above the crash of the guns sounded the war-cry of the Yellow
Knives. The whole clearing sprang alive with men, yelling like fiends
and firing as they ran. Dark forms swarmed up the ladders and over the
walls. MacNair grabbed the rungs of a ladder and drew himself up.
Above him climbed the Indian who had carried the ladder. He had no
gun, but the grey blade of a long knife flashed wickedly between his
teeth.

The Indian crashed backward, carrying MacNair with him into the snow.
MacNair struggled to his feet. The Indian lay almost at the foot of
the ladder, and, gurgling horribly, rose to his knees. MacNair glanced
into his face. The man's eyes were rolled backward until only the
whites showed. His lips moved, and he clung to the rungs of the
ladder. Blood splashed down his front and reddened the trampled snow,
then he fell heavily backward, and MacNair saw that his whole throat
had been shot away by the close fired charge of a shotgun.

With a roar, MacNair scrambled up the ladder, automatic in hand. On
the firing ledge's narrow rim a riverman snapped together the breech of
his shotgun, and looked up--his face close to the face of MacNair. And
as he looked his jaw sagged in terror. MacNair jammed the barrel of
the automatic into the open mouth and fired.

CHAPTER XXV