Lowndes reached the palisade and climbed upon it by means of the cross
pieces binding it together, and then he stood upon the topmost bar,
where his head and all his body, above the knees, rose clear of the
bulwark. He was outlined there sharply, a stout, puffy man, his face
redder than ever from the effect of climbing, and his eyes gleaming
triumphantly as, from his high perch, he looked toward the forest.
"I tell you there is not--" But the words were cut short, the gleam died
from his eyes, the red fled from his face, and he whitened suddenly with
terror. From the forest came a sharp report, echoing in the still night,
and the puffy man, throwing up his arms, fell from the palisade back
into the inclosure, dead before he touched the ground.
A fierce yell, the long ominous note of the war whoop burst from the
forest, and its sound, so full of menace and fury, was more terrible
than that of the rifle. Then came other shots, a rapid pattering volley,
and bullets struck with a low sighing sound against the upper walls of
the blockhouse. The long quavering cry, the Indian yell rose and died
again and in the black forest, still for aught else, it was weird and
unearthly.
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