“We want our fort,” Boucher finally said.
“Go to your fort.” Semple motioned toward the south and the location where Fort Gibraltar used to stand.
“Why did you destroy our fort, you rascal?” Boucher held his musket against his shoulder. He pranced his horse close to Semple and swung his gun out to point in the governor’s direction.
Semple grabbed the barrel of the gun.
Alarm pounded in Arran’s head and his instincts immediately kicked in. All the men, in both groups, sprang to readiness. Backs were tight, muscles clenched, and weapons poised for attack. Arran kept his gaze locked on their enemies, watching for the slightest twitch or movement.
Boucher jumped from his horse and at the same moment, a shot rang out. Arran did not know from whom it sounded, but Lieutenant Holt, a clerk in the colony’s service, fell from his horse and struggled upon the ground.
Arran and the other fort men stared at Lieutenant Holt in shock. In seconds, his writhing body went still and his eyes stared sightlessly toward the blue sky.
“He’s dead,” Angus Ferguson said at Arran’s left. “They’ve killed him.”
Boucher ripped his musket from Semple’s hand and ran toward the Bois-Brûlés while another shot rang out from their company.
It hit Semple in the thigh. Semple stared in disbelief as the wound began to bleed, soaking his tan trousers in crimson red. His horse’s eyes rolled back and he started to buck.
Arran pushed Tiberius to Semple’s side, his jaw tight with panic and anger. He grabbed the reins of Semple’s horse to keep him from bolting.
Semple grasped his leg and yelled at his men, “Do what you can to take care of yourselves!”
On instinct, the fort men drew close to Semple and Holt, some coming off their horses to attend to their fallen comrade.
In quick succession, the Bois-Brûlés brought the two ends of their column together and surrounded the fort men. They lifted their guns and began to fire.
Bullets zinged past Arran as he let go of the governor’s horse and aimed his musket, expecting to be shot at any moment. He did not even think. Everything was done by instinct. He pulled the trigger on his musket, even as a volley rang out from the enemy, accompanied by yells and shouts of warfare. Smoke filled the air as a dozen or more fort men fell, almost at once. Arran grabbed Semple and pulled him from his horse, hoping to use the beast as a shield, but the Bois-Brûlés had circled them and there was nowhere to hide.
“Leave me,” Semple said to Arran. “And fight these devils.”
Arran pressed his hand against the wound in Semple’s leg while the Bois-Brûlés continued to fire upon the fort men. Profanity filled the air, mingled with the cries of those injured and dying. Musket balls zinged to Arran’s right and left, dimpling the ground, kicking up chunks of earth. Arran’s heart pounded and his pulse surged.
All around Arran, men he had known for years lay on the ground. Angus Ferguson jumped from his horse and went to a fellow settler who was gasping for air. One of the Bois-Brûlés took aim and sent a musket ball straight through Angus’s heart. He fell over his friend and did not move again.
Shock and disbelief ravaged Arran’s mind, but he was defenseless as he tried to stem the flow of blood from Semple’swound—it was like watching his mother burn to death, all over again. Arran’s musket needed to be reloaded to shoot again, but he couldn’t do that and help Semple at the same time. He had no way to protect or shield his men, or himself. If they could not stop the Bois-Brûlés now, with some of their strongest and bravest men, how would they protect the fort? What would become of Eleanor and Miriam—or Fiona and her children? Rage spotted Arran’s eyesight and he started to rise, a rush of energy convincing him he could take on fifty Bois-Brûlés on his own.
At that moment, Captain Rogers, another of the company men, ran toward the line of Bois-Brûlés, his hands raised over his head. “I surrender,” he called out in desperation. “Spare my life!”
One of the men with Cuthbert Grant lowered his gun and aimed it right at Rogers. He didn’t even hesitate, but shot him in the head and then jumped from his horse and stabbed him.
Arran yelled in anger at the savagery. Smoke from the muskets burnt his nose while Semple’s blood wet his hands. From where he sat on the ground, he could see Cuthbert Grant sitting quietly on his horse, watching the scene unfold with little emotion. Beside him, a man Arran had known as a young North West Company clerk, Augustin Lavigne, also watched, though he didn’t appear to be unaffected. His eyes were large, and his face was pale.
West was one of the last men on a horse. Arran yelled for him to get down and try to save himself, but West did not appear to hear him over the melee.
Instead, he put up his hands, his face wild with shock. “We have not come for bloodshed. We only wish to be heard.”
“West!” Arran yelled at him again and tried to rise and stop him. “Dinna—”
A shot rang out and West’s eyes opened wide. It was as if time stood still. He looked down at the growing patch of red on his chest and slowly lifted his hand to touch the bullet hole. A moment later, he slumped over in his saddle.
“No.” Arran fell back onto the prairie, panic and disbelief pounding through his body. He felt disconnected and removed from the scene. There were only a few men still alive, but for how long? Hatred and murder burned from the eyes of the Bois-Brûlés as they reloaded their weapons and continued to fight.
Only Lavigne appeared to be shaken. Suddenly, Arran knew what he must do.
“Please, Lavigne.” Arran stood, his legs weak. He put his hands up, knowing full well that Cuthbert had no intention of leaving any of them alive. He had come for revenge, and he had just taken it. There was no telling what he might do to the fort and those inside once all Semple’s men were dead. Arran could think of nothing else but Eleanor and Miriam. He needed to stay alive so he could protect them. It was the only thing that mattered now, and he would do whatever it would take. But he couldn’t stay where he was. “Lavigne!” Arran walked toward the man, wondering if each breath was his last. “We are friends,” he said to the Frenchman. “You ken me well. Dinna let me die today.”
Lavigne focused his bewildered gaze on Arran, almost as if he was in a daze.
