A responding murmur showed that the bulk of them were with him.  Weary of the pent-up life, longing for action, and starved for a good meal, the anger of his many followers against Clark and Harrod was nigh as great as his.  He started roughly to shoulder his way out, and whether from accident or design Captain Harrod slipped in front of him, I never knew.  The thing that followed happened quickly as the catching of my breath.  I saw McGary powdering his pan, and Harrod his, and felt the crowd giving back like buffalo.  All at once the circle had vanished, and the two men were standing not five paces apart with their rifles clutched across their bodies, each watching, catlike, for the other to level.  It was a cry that startled us—­and them.  There was a vision of a woman flying across the common, and we saw the dauntless Mrs. Harrod snatching her husband’s gun from his resisting hands.  So she saved his life and McGary’s.

At this point Colonel Clark was seen coming from the gate.  When he got to Harrod and McGary the quarrel blazed up again, but now it was between the three of them, and Clark took Harrod’s rifle from Mrs. Harrod and held it.  However, it was presently decided that McGary should wait one more day before going to his clearing, whereupon the gates were opened, the picked men going ahead to take station as a guard, and soon we were hard at work, ploughing here and mowing there, and in another place putting seed in the ground:  in the cheer of the work hardships were forgotten, and we paused now and again to laugh at some sally of Terence McCann’s or odd word of Swein Poulsson’s.  As the day wore on to afternoon a blue haze—­harbinger of autumn—­settled over fort and forest.  Bees hummed in the air as they searched hither and thither amongst the flowers, or shot straight as a bullet for a distant hive.  But presently a rifle cracked, and we raised our heads.

“Hist!” said Terence, “the bhoys on watch is that warlike!  Whin there’s no redskins to kill they must be wastin’ good powdher on a three.”

I leaped upon a stump and scanned the line of sentries between us and the woods; only their heads and shoulders appeared above the rank growth.  I saw them looking from one to another questioningly, some shouting words I could not hear.  Then I saw some running; and next, as I stood there wondering, came another crack, and then a volley like the noise of a great fire licking into dry wood, and things that were not bees humming round about.  A distant man in a yellow hunting shirt stumbled, and was drowned in the tangle as in water.  Around me men dropped plough-handles and women baskets, and as we ran our legs grew numb and our bodies cold at a sound which had haunted us in dreams by night—­the war-whoop.  The deep and guttural song of it rose and fell with a horrid fierceness.  An agonized voice was in my ears, and I halted, ashamed.  It was Polly Ann’s.

“Davy!” she cried, “Davy, have ye seen Tom?”