When the stubby howitzer was rolled into place the Orkneymen stepped back and Motley, with some ceremony, applied the spark to the touchhole.
White smoke blasted outward as the cannon leaped off the ground and rushed backward.
The trading room door was like a thick man hit in the middle by a war club. The center shot in, the hinges gave way. In a shower of splinters and wrenched nails, the door carried backward half the length of the room and leaned drunkenly against the counter.
Motley gave a hoarse command. The Orkneymen, snatching up rifles, pistols, knives and bludgeons, charged.
Yellow Hair’s head was reeling with the concussion. The abrupt advent of daylight helped the smoke to blind him. But through the acrid and thick white fog he could see men coming.
He crouched over his par
