From out of the bushes behind him a voice came. "That last's a good
prophecy, Mr. West. It'll be just as you say."

The big fellow wheeled, the rifle jumping to his shoulder. Instantly
he knew he had been tricked, led into a trap. They must have heard him
coming, whoever they were, and left his own men for bait.

From the other side two streaks of scarlet launched themselves at him.
West turned to meet them. A third flash of red dived for his knees. He
went down as though hit by a battering-ram.

But not to stay down. The huge gorilla-shaped figure struggled to
its feet, fighting desperately to throw off the three red-coats long
enough to drag out a revolver. He was like a bear surrounded by
leaping dogs. No sooner had he buffeted one away than the others
were dragging him down. Try as he would, he could not get set. The
attackers always staggered him before he could quite free himself for
action. They swarmed all over him, fought close to avoid his sweeping
lunges, hauled him to his knees by sheer weight of the pack.

Lemoine flung one swift look around and saw that his captors were very
busy. Now if ever was the time to take a hand in the mêlée. Swiftly he
rose. He spoke a hurried word in French.

"One moment, s'il vous plaît." From the bushes another man had
emerged, one not in uniform. Lemoine had forgotten him. "Not your
fight. Better keep out," he advised, and pointed the suggestion with a
short-barreled shotgun.

The trapper looked at him. "Is it that this iss your fight, Mistair