He fairly flew across the planks, clutching Wessah frantically to him, and flung himself inside. Durwell sprang in just behind him, and Mark followed Durwell. Outside, a ragged volley of shots crackled in the sunny air, and shrill, wild whoops rose on all sides. Mark caught the door, slammed it shut, and swung the heavy bar into place across it. He put his eye to the loophole. Across that open porchlike space where the grinding was done, he saw the dam, the water gate, and the road to eastward. But there was no movement anywhere. Behind him he heard the flat noise of shutters being closed and secured. “Into our sleeping chamber with you, Mark,” Durwell snapped at him. “There’s a window there, looking northward up the ridge. Be ready to fight them off.” Mark crossed the room with leaping strides. Celia stood by the table, the sheaf of spoons still clutched in her hand. She looked at Mark with wide, terrified eyes.
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