“It’s a pretty safe gamble we’d better get ready for them,” he said.  “They’ll soon begin.  Did you split even on the cartridges?”

“Seventeen apiece.”

Philip examined his rifle, and looked through the gun-crevice toward the forest.  He heard Olaf tugging at the dogs as he tied them to the bunk posts; he heard Armin say something in a strained voice, and the Swede’s unintelligible reply, followed by a quick, low-voiced interrogation from Celie.  In the same moment his heart gave a sudden jump.  In the fringe of the forest he saw a long, thin line of moving figures—­advancing.  He did not call out a warning instantly.  For a space in which he might have taken a long breath or two his eyes and brain were centered on the moving figures and the significance of their drawn-out formation.  Like a camera-flash his eyes ran over the battleground.  Half way between the cabin and that fringe of forest four hundred yards away was a “hogback” in the snow, running a curving parallel with the plain.  It formed scarcely more than a three or four foot rise in the surface, and he had given it no special significance until now.  His lips formed words as the thrill of understanding leapt upon him.

“They’re moving!” he called to Olaf.  “They’re going to make a rush for the little ridge between us and the timber.  Good God, Anderson, there’s an army of them!”

“Not more’n a hundred,” replied the Swede calmly, taking his place at the gun-crevice.  “Take it easy, Phil.  This will be good target practice.  We’ve got to make an eighty percent kill as they come across the open.  This is mighty comfortable compared with the trick they turned on us when they got Calkins, Harris and O’Flynn.  I got away in the night.”

The moving line had paused just within the last straggling growth of trees, as if inviting the fire of the defenders.

Olaf grunted as he looked along the barrel of his rifle.

“Strategy,” he mumbled.  “They know we’re shy of ammunition.”

In the moments of tense waiting Philip found his first opportunity to question the man at his side.  First, he said: 

“I guess mebby you. understand, Olaf.  We’ve gone through a hell together, and I love her.  If we get out of this she’s going to be my wife.  She’s promised me that, and yet I swear to Heaven I don’t know more than a dozen words of her language.  What has happened?  Who is she?  Why was she with Bram Johnson?  You know their language, and have been with them—­”

“They’re taking final orders,” interrupted Olaf, as if he had not heard.  “There’s something more on foot than a rush to the ridge.  It’s Blake’s scheming.  See those little groups forming?  They’re going to bring battering-rams, and make a second rush from the ridge.”  He drew in a deep breath, and without a change in the even tone of his voice, went on:  “Calkins, Harris and O’Flynn went down in a good fight.  Tell you about that later.  Hit seven days’