Orioles and mocking-birds sang in the openings, and startled deer fled before our advance as Shelby Cousin and I rode for the Clinch. The heat of July was tempered by a breeze out of the north, and the heavens were filled with hurrying white argosies. So it had ever been since the white man came to these pleasant ridges and rich bottom-lands; perfume, song, gracious valleys, and the lurking red evil.

Cousin had regained his self-control overnight and outwardly appeared to be thoroughly composed. He talked but little, and then only when I took the lead. I refrained from mentioning the tragedy of yesterday and the sun was noon-high before he brought the matter up.

“I couldn’t kill that feller,” he abruptly informed me.

There was no preface to indicate whom he meant, but I knew and nodded sympathetically.

“An’ I’d ruther kill him than all the rest o’ the Injuns ’tween here ’n’ Detroit,” he added after a long pause.

“She will never come back to us?” I asked; for he had given no details of his interview with his sister.

“She’ll never come back. For a time I’d a mind to drag her away, but she was so cold to me, so Injun-like in her way of lettin’ me know it wouldn’t do no good, that I give it up. You see she was only a child when captured. Women caught when much older’n her have gone for to choose a wigwam to a cabin.”

“Do you wish I had shot him?”

“No. If it could happen in a open fight—that’s different. It wouldn’t do any good to hurt her by killin’ him. But I wish he was dead!”

We stopped and ate and rode several miles before either of us spoke again. Then I said:

“There’s a girl ahead, about your age.”

He was disturbed to hear it and I feared he would wish to leave me.

“I don’t want her captured by Indians,” I added.

“God forbid it!” he hoarsely cried.

Having prepared him for seeing Patricia, I shifted his line of thought by asking, “What do you think of John Ward?”

“Injun.”

I said nothing and after a few minutes he went on:

“Took by Injuns when a little boy, just like Tavenor Ross and George Collet was took. I’ve heard traders tell about the three of ’em. When they’re took so young they grow up just as much Injuns as if they was born red. Ward’s that way. Must be. Look at the sister I lost!”

“But Ward comes back to settlements. He even crosses the mountains. He says he escaped.”

“He wouldn’t be travelin’ round these parts if he was a’ ’scaped prisoner. As for crossin’ the mountains he might ’a’ gone for to see what he could see. Cornstalk has spies all up an’ down the frontier. I ’low them two we met yesterday was bent on spyin’. God! That’s a’ awful thought! But I ain’t got no sister. It was a red woman we seen. She ’n’ her man was spyin’. If not that why should they be makin’ east into the mountains? I ’low he was to stay hid while ’nother ’scaped prisoner rode down into some settlement.”

From that speech on I do not remember that he spoke of his sister as being any kin of his. When he must mention her he usually styled her, “That woman who’s turned red.”

To get his thoughts away from her I rattled on about my trip to Richfield and told of my experiences in returning over the mountains. After I had narrated Hughes’ quick action in saving me from an assassin’s bullet Cousin jerked up his head and said:

“Moccasin, one you give to that there young woman we’re now followin’?”

I nodded, and he continued:

“I ’low it was John Ward who tried to pot you. He stole the moccasin and sneaked back an’ laid the trap. Prob’ly laid it for whoever come along without knowin’ who would walk into it. You was mighty lucky to have Hughes there.” I had never connected Ward with that attempt on my life.

“The Dales believe Ward to be what he pretends—an escaped prisoner,” I said.

“Course they do,” sighed the boy. “The country’s full of fools. After he’s led ’em to the stake an’ they begin to roast they’ll wake up an’ reckon that there’s something wrong with his white blood.”

His matter-of-fact way of expressing it made my blood congeal. It was unthinkable to imagine Patsy Dale in the hands of the Indians. I urged my horse to a sharper clip, but Cousin warned me:

“No use hurryin’. Save your nag for the time when you’ll need him mighty bad. I ’low we can overtake ’em afore anything happens.”

We had discovered no fresh Indian-signs. Black Hoof and his braves were far north of us. We knew scouts were ranging up the Clinch and Holston, and that the people were forting from Fort Chiswell to the head of the Holston, and that practically all the settlers had left Rich Valley between Walker’s Mountain and the north fork of the Holston.

Nearly all the settlers had come off the heads of Sandy and Walker’s Creeks and were building forts at David Doack’s mill on the Clinch and on the head waters of the middle fork of the Holston, as well as at Gasper Kinder’s place in Poor Valley.

Cornstalk must know the time was near when the whites would send an army against the Shawnee towns north of the Ohio, and he was too cunning a warrior to risk sending many of his men into southwestern Virginia. Black Hoof was there with a large force, but he could not tarry without leaving the Scioto towns uncovered.

Therefore my opinion coincided with my companion’s, once my first flurry of fear was expended. The Dales were in no immediate danger, and if any hostile band was below New River it would be a small one. Once more I allowed my horse to take his time. I began to find room for wondering how I was to overcome my embarrassment once we did come up with the Dales.

Ericus Dale would rant and indulge in abuse. Patricia would be remembering my lack of faith in her father’s influence over the natives. She would want none of my company. But if Cousin and I could trail them unseen until they entered a small settlement at the head of the Bluestone, where they would be sure to pause before making for the head of the Clinch, we could pretend we were scouting far south and had met them by accident; then we could ride on ahead of them.

Their trail was simple to follow. The Dales were mounted and Ward was afoot and leading a pack-horse. We came to their several camps, and at each of these I observed the girl was wearing my moccasins. When Cousin would behold the small imprint his face would twist in anguish. Poor devil!

For three days we leisurely followed them, and each sunrise found me entertaining fewer fears for the girl’s safety. We timed our progress so as to pitch our last camp within a mile of the settlement in Abb’s Valley on the Bluestone, intending to reconnoiter it for signs of the Dales before showing ourselves.

The valley was about ten miles long and very narrow and possessing unusually fertile soil. It was named after Absalom Looney, a hunter, who claimed to have discovered it. Cousin informed me there were three cabins and a small fort in the valley when he last visited it. At that time one of the families was planning to cross the mountains and sacrifice the summer’s planting.

“Mebbe they’ve all come off since then. Or them that’s stayed may be killed an’ sculped by this time,” he added.

“Whatever may have happened to the settlers is all finished by this time and there can be no danger for the Dales,” I declared.

“I ’low they’re packin’ their worst danger along with ’em,” he mumbled.

“Meaning John Ward?”

“Meaning him,” was the terse answer.

This set all my fears to galloping again, and they rode one another close. What if Ward were the creature Cousin pictured him? Then he must have designs on the Dales, and he would persuade them to travel in a direction which would lead them into a trap. If Ward were “red” he already had planned just where he would bag his game.

Against this line of reasoning was our failure to discover fresh signs, and the fact that Black Hoof’s band was making north. Then one fear drew ahead of all others, and I was thrown into a panic lest Ward plotted to count his coup unaided and would murder the trader and his daughter. I rose from the fire and announced my intention of proceeding to the valley settlement that night. I told Cousin my fears.

“That’s just so much foolishness,” he told me. “If Ward’s up to them sort o’ tricks he’d ’a’ made his kill when only a few miles from Howard’s Creek, when he was that much closer to Black Hoof’s band. Then he’d ’a’ sneaked north to j’in his red friends and dance his sculps. But we’ve found all their camps, and nothin’ has happened. They’re safe so far.”

It was near morning before I could sleep and I awoke at sunrise. Cousin was missing. I investigated and discovered he had gone on foot, so I assumed he was out to kill some meat to pack into the settlement. I prepared something to eat and finished my portion and was kneeling to drink from a spring when I heard him coming through the woods. He was running and making much noise, and I had a presentiment that something very evil had happened. Before he came into view he called my name sharply.

“All right! I’m here! What is it?” I answered.

“Devil’s come for his pay!” he snapped as he burst through the last of the growth. “Only two miles west fresh tracks of big war-party makin’ south. They’re makin’ for Abb’s Valley. That white-Injun devil fixed it up. Goin’ to gobble the settlers along with your fool friends. If we can’t stop ’em they’ll git every white in the valley sure’s Sabba’day preachin’!”

Until that moment I had never dreamed of the exquisite torture that the threat of an Indian raid could induce. I secured my weapons and mounted without realizing what I was doing. My first coherent thought was one of amazement to behold Cousin stuffing smoked meat into his pack with one hand while the other held a tough morsel for his teeth to tear at. He ate like a famished wolf.

“Can’t fight without some linin’,” he mumbled. “An’ we’ll take what’s left along. May git in a corner an’ have mighty little time for cookin’.”

I urged my horse into a gallop. Cousin tore after me, angrily calling on me to wait. I was in no mood to wait, and endeavored to get even more speed out of my animal. Then Cousin brought me to my senses by yelling:

“All right! Kill ’em if you want to!”

I pulled in and he drove alongside, crying:

“First thing you know you’ll be runnin’ into a nest o’ them devils. Their path and our path draws together an’ enters the valley as one path.”

“But we must reach the valley ahead of them!”

“Can’t be did,” he discouraged. “Best we can do is to sneak up on ’em without bein’ seen.”

As a last hope I suggested:

“Perhaps after all they know nothing about the Dales.”

“They know ’bout Abb’s Valley. It’s Black Hoof’s band. Made off north, then swung back down here, keepin’ clear o’ Howard’s Creek. If they clean out Abb’s Valley they’ll clean out the creek on their way home.”

Scant consolation in all this. It was a great relief to reach the Bluestone and prepare for action. We spanceled our horses in a tiny opening well surrounded by woods. Cousin was familiar with the country and led the way. Instead of making for the mouth of the narrow valley we gained the end of one of its enclosing ridges and scouted along the slope.

When we halted and Cousin carefully parted the bushes I observed we were behind three cabins and high enough up the slope to see over them. The valley at this point was not more than fifty rods wide, and appeared to be even less because of the long walls stretching away for ten miles.

Some children were laughing at their play and were hidden from view as long as they kept close to the door of the middle cabin. A dog was growling and barking, but as he did not join the sport of the little ones we concluded he was tied. One of the red cabins, that nearest to the mouth of the valley, did not appear to be occupied.

Through the small window of the cabin farthest up the valley I glimpsed two persons moving about when they passed between the window and the open door. A few rods farther out toward the middle of the valley and nearer the Bluestone than the unoccupied cabin, were the four walls of what had been intended for a fort. It lacked the roof. For some reason the men had suspended work on it, being too few to complete it, or else deciding the cabins furnished sufficient protection.

Three men, all strangers to me, now entered our line of vision as they walked out from the shelter of the middle cabin. Cousin told me their names. The tall man with the long black beard was Granville, one of the original settlers. He and his wife and two children, with Mrs. Granville’s sister, lived in the middle cabin. A short swarthy man was Nate Dicks. He had sent his family over the mountains and was staying behind to gather the season’s crops, explained Cousin. The third man was along in years and walked with a limp.

“That’s the old Englishman. All the name he goes by. No kin to any one on this side the ocean, he says. He lives with the Granvilles. The empty cabin belonged to the Drakes. They pulled out early this spring. Dicks lives in the t’other-end cabin.”

“I make out at least two people in there now,” I murmured.

“They’ll be the Dales. Dicks’s prob’ly sleepin’ in the Granville cabin.”

My heart behaved badly for a minute.

“Listen to that pup!” softly exclaimed Cousin, his brows drawing down. “The fools have him tied up, an they ain’t got sense ’nough to hark to what he’s tryin’ to tell ’em.”

“We’re here ahead of the Indians. Let’s go down,” I urged.

“Wait! Look across!” He pointed to the wall of woods opposite our hiding-place. John Ward had broken cover and was stalking toward the cabins. The black cloth he wore around his head gave him a sinister, piratical appearance and his feet tracked like an Indian’s.

I would have descended the slope but Cousin clutched my arm, whispering:

“If there ain’t no Injuns across the valley we can afford to wait a bit. If there is, our goin’ down would hurry up their attack. It won’t do to call out an’ scare ’em so they’ll scatter. As they are now they can fort themselves in the shake of a dog’s tail.”

Two women, Mrs. Granville and her sister, now walked back of the middle cabin and picked up some wood. Both were barefooted, and I was close enough to read the expression of constant fear on each face. As they stooped for the wood their gaze was continually roving over the woods on our ridge, and often their fingers fumbled for a fagot while their eyes persisted in examining the forest.

Now Dale and Patsy emerged from their cabin and walked to meet Ward. Cousin groaned aloud as he beheld the girl. There was something in her appearance to remind him of his lost sister. Ericus Dale greeted Ward with a wide flourish of his hand. Ward was emotionless as a Shawnee chief. Granville and Dicks hurried to join the three, anxious no doubt to learn the result of Ward’s scouting.

His report seemed to please the men, for Granville laid aside his rifle and began chopping a long log into fireplace lengths. Dicks walked toward the middle cabin, lustily singing:

This song, six or seven lengthy stanzas in all, was written by Mr. George Campbell, an Irish gentleman, and was popular along the frontier. It was sung to the tune of the Black Joke, and commemorated the successful efforts of Captain James Smith to prevent Philadelphia traders from sending weapons of war to the northwest tribes shortly after the treaty of 1765 was concluded.

Dicks was finishing the first stanza as he entered the cabin. He broke off sharply to rebuke the dog. Soon he came out with a bag. At about a hundred yards from the cabin, and farther up the valley than any of them, was the lick-block. Dicks was walking toward this. Several horses broke from the growth across the valley and ran toward the cabins.

“Almost act like they was skeered,” whispered Cousin.

“Coming in to be salted,” I corrected as the horses swerved and galloped toward the block. Dicks was ambling along slowly and reverting to his song. The dog suddenly darted from the cabin and streaked after Dicks, a piece of rawhide trailing from his neck. As he ran he made a great outcry. Dicks was very angry to have his vocal efforts interrupted, and he halted and swung the bag of salt in an attempt to hit the dog, all the while commanding him to go back. The horses were now at the block and stepping about uneasily.

“I never guessed that! Come on! Something will bu’st loose in a minute!” groaned Cousin.

We started to slide down the bank, when a terrible tragedy took place before our eyes. As Dicks was emptying the salt on to the lick-block the horses sprang back and bolted in alarm, and an Indian’s topknot, decorated with wild-turkey feathers, bobbed up from behind the block. Dicks seemed to be paralyzed. The savage struck him with his ax and the unfortunate man went down, dead before he lost his footing. In the next second the dog, a huge brute of mongrel breed, cleared the block and closed his jaws on the murderer’s neck.

This was a signal for Cousin’s prophecy to come true. A deafening chorus of howls burst from the woods opposite the cabins, and a volley of bullets rained among the settlers. Mrs. Granville and the two children dropped. The old Englishman, standing nearer the cabins, staggered and turned around two or three times. Granville, unharmed, picked up the body of his wife.

The old Englishman was very brave, for he limped forward and managed to gather up the children, one under each arm. Granville’s sister was practical enough to secure her brother-in-law’s rifle and ax. The three, with their dead, made for the middle cabin.

All this happened in the wink of an eye. The Dales and Ward, walking toward the end cabin when Dicks was killed, halted and stood as if stupefied. None of the bullets had reached them. The girl seized her father’s arm and led him to shelter. He was unhurt, but he moved with shuffling steps, much like a tavern-loafer soggy from rum.

We ran to enter the nearest cabin, which happened to be Granville’s, but the door was slammed and barred before we could round the corner.

“In here!” sharply cried Cousin, darting through the doorway of the empty cabin.

As I piled in after him I saw Patsy and Dale entering their cabin, but Ward, the white Indian, was running to cover up the valley. And not a savage had shown himself with the exception of the one who had counted coup at the lick-block. This fellow was still in sight and extremely busy.

With our door ajar we watched the ghastly struggle between the faithful mongrel and the assassin. The Indian had lost his ax but had managed to draw his knife. The dog’s teeth were buried in his throat before he could get his blade loose. I raised my rifle but Cousin laughed and knocked it aside and cried:

“Let him make his kill! It’s his coup!”

The warrior staggered clear of the block, his desperate plight blinding him to all else. His eyes were protruding. He stabbed blindly. I cried out in pain as I saw the knife sink to the hilt. But the faithful beast had locked his jaws and the weight of his body was already ripping the red throat open. Dead dog and dying warrior fell side by side. The dog had counted the first coup for the whites.

Now we caught our first view of the enemy. A long line of Shawnees emerged from the woods, running and leaping and jumping from side to side, sinking behind stumps and vanishing behind the scattered trees.

“We’ve got time to make the ridge back o’ here,” spoke up Cousin. “We’s fools to come in here. S’pose we go.”

“You go! I must stick,” I told him.

“We can do ’em more good out in the open than by bein’ cooped up in here,” he quietly reasoned.

“You go. I can’t leave the girl.”

“Then bar the door,” he commanded.

I did so, and through a loophole knocked over a savage who had paused in the open to brandish a war-ax thickly decorated with either feathers or scalps.

“Good! We’ll make a fine fight of it!” grimly said Cousin as he stepped from a loophole at the back of the cabin. “It’s too late for us to make the ridge now. It’s crawlin’ with the vermin.”

His bearing was exceedingly cheerful as he posted himself at the front of the cabin, his double-barrel rifle ready for a snap-shot. He fired the two barrels almost together, and laughed boisterously.

“Two tryin’ to hide behind one small tree,” he explained. “Got one dead an’ sp’iled t’other.”

As yet not a shot had been fired from the other two cabins. A voice called from the Granville cabin. I found a chink in the wall and beheld the face of the Englishman peering from the small end window.

“Who’s there?” he kept demanding in a shrill voice.

“Two white scouts. Get to shooting!”

He could not see me but he heard me, and vanished to help in the defense. Cousin had reloaded and was watching the valley closely. Bullets were plunking into the log walls, but I knew none of the savages were exposing themselves, else my companion would be shooting. From the Granville cabin several shots were fired without any effect so far as we could make out. Then again the Englishman was calling us. I went forward.

“Hear what I say?” he cried.

I answered that we could.

“Ericus Dale says for us to stop shooting or he can’t save us,” he informed us.

“He can’t save himself!” I yelled back.

“He thinks he can save all of us.”

“He couldn’t save the man at the lick-block,” I reminded.

“Aye. There’s sorry truth in that.”

“This valley’s a trap. John Ward, the white Indian, led him and his daughter into it,” I shouted.

“God help and pity us!” he groaned. Then more calmly, “Ward came back from the woods this morning and said there were no signs of Indians.”

“He met them and talked with them, and planned how they should surprise you people. The warrior at the lick-block knew Dicks would discover him, so he showed himself and made his kill.”

“Aye. That is reasonable thinking.”

“What losses in there?” I asked. I thrust my knife-blade between the logs so he might know where I was standing and cease rolling his eyes in his efforts to locate me.

His old face screwed up in pain.

“Mistress Granville and the two children, shot dead. Perhaps it’s best that way. I’m wounded—that don’t count. You going to keep on shooting?”

“As long as we can pull trigger.”

“I’ll tell Granville. He wants to save his sister if he can.”

“Then he must fight. Tell him so,” I warned.

I turned back to Cousin. He was scowling savagely through his peephole. “Take the back side ’n’ watch for signs on the ridge,” he mumbled. “Them out front are huggin’ dirt an’ not tryin’ to git nearer. They’re waitin’ for somethin’.”

At the back of the cabin I found a tiny chink and applied my eye. My first thought was that a comet was streaming down into my face. The long war-arrow, weighted with a blazing mass of pitch-smeared moss, stuck in a log a few inches below my peephole. From the ridge came a howl of triumph.

By thrusting my knife-blade through the hole and against the shaft of the arrow I managed to dislodge it, and it burned itself out against the huge bottom log. We did not fear fire until the arrows stuck in the roof. The same thought was in Cousin’s mind. He did not look around, but he had smelled the smoke and he directed:

“Climb up an’ work the roof-poles apart a bit so’s you can knock ’em off the roof when they land.”

I soon had the poles slightly separated in two places. As I finished a dozen flying brands poured down on the Granville cabin and ours. One arrow lodged on our roof close to the eves. Two were burning on the ridgepole of the Granville cabin. The others either stuck harmlessly in the logs or overshot and stood so many torches in the ground. By means of the table I scrambled back to the roof and managed to knock the menace to the ground. While I was thus engaged Cousin fired both barrels.

“What luck?” I asked as I jumped to the floor.

“Just bein’ neighborly,” he growled as he rapidly loaded. “Shot them two arrers off the next roof.”

Suddenly the savage howling ceased; nor were there any more fire-arrows. Then the Englishman began shouting. He was once more calling us. I answered and wriggled the knife-blade between the logs. Sure of my attention he loudly informed us: “Dale passes the word for us to stop fighting. Says he’s going to save us.”

“To the devil with Dale!” snarled Cousin, showing his teeth like a wolf.

“He’s going out to talk with ’em,” added the Englishman.

“Lord! What a fool!” lamented Cousin.

“He’s going now,” continued the Englishman.

I darted to Cousin’s side and peered out. We heard the bar drop from the end cabin; then Dale came into view, walking with a swagger toward the concealed savages. In one hand he held up a string of white wampum. And as he slowly advanced he shouted in the Shawnee language:

“Do my brothers fire on their brother? Do they harm their brother’s friends? Does the Pack-Horse-Man ask his red brothers to be kind only to have his words fall on dead ears? I bring you belts. My daughter in the cabin also brings belts to the Shawnees and Mingos and the Delawares.”

“Let our white brother come close,” called a deep guttural voice.

“That’ll be Black Hoof himself,” excitedly muttered Cousin, darting his gaze over the valley in search of the stone or log which hid the great chief from view.

“Don’t shoot! They’ll butcher him if you do!” I warned.

“They’ll worse’n butcher him if I don’t,” gritted Cousin. Yet he held his fire, for the excellent reason he could see nothing to shoot at.

“Tell your people not to fire,” again called Black Hoof’s powerful voice.

Dale faced the cabins and waved his white wampum, crying:

“I am saving your lives. You men in the lower cabin, throw down your arms!”

“Like thunder!” grunted Cousin.

“He’s fairly among them!” I gasped.

Dale had come to a stop and was turning his head and glancing from one point to another on the ground as he talked. His voice had its old confident ring, and there was a slight smile on his lips as he rehearsed his friendship for the red people and reminded them how often he visited their villages and smoked their pipes.

When he ceased Black Hoof called out:

“We will lift a peace-pipe to our good friend, the Pack-Horse-Man. We will cover his friends with the smoke. Let him tell his friends not to be afraid and to throw down their guns.”

Dale was sure of Granville’s and the Englishman’s behavior, and he addressed his warning to Cousin and me, calling on us in a stentorian voice to offer no resistance if we valued our lives. He ended by yelling:

“Catahecassa, war-chief of the Shawnees, spares your lives.”

Without giving us time to speak, he waved a hand and commanded:

“It’s all right, Patricia! Come out!”

“Stay where you are!” I screamed, my voice muffled by the four stout walls. I jumped to tear the bar from the door, but Cousin hurled me aside, panting:

“Too late! God! To think such a woman should walk into their bloody trap!”

His words sent me to the loophole. Patricia Dale was walking composedly toward her father, her slim hands holding up her belts. She winced as she passed the lick-block and got a glimpse of the dead savage and the dead dog. Then her gaze remained steady on her father’s calm face.

Black Hoof said something, but there was a pounding in my ears which prevented me from hearing it. I guessed it, though, when Dale called out:

“All you who would be spared come out and leave your guns behind!”

He had barely spoken before the Englishman’s voice excitedly called:

“You two scouts in there.”

I gave him heed and he informed me: “Granville and his sister say they are going out. Do you go out?”

“We shall stay here. It’s better for you to die where you are,” I told him.

“Ay, I think it’s better myself. Well, I’m old and hungry to be with the children again.”

The Englishman was a brave man, and very sensible. He recognized Fate when it paused to stare him in the eye. My companion was panting for breath and was standing back so as to rest the muzzle of his rifle just inside the loophole. A glance revealed his deadly purpose. A tall warrior was now on his feet. I knew him to be Black Hoof. I had seen him at Fort Pitt during one of those rare lulls between wars.

Cousin was fairly out of his head with the lust to kill the chief, but the Shawnee took no chances. He was careful to keep the girl and her father between him and the cabins. I pushed Cousin’s gun aside and fiercely upbraided him for placing the Dales’ lives in jeopardy.

“You fool!” he cried. “They’re gone already. Are you, too, blind? If you love that gal out there and want to do her the greatest kindness a man can ever do to a border woman, shoot her!”

Granville began shouting:

“Me ’n’ my sister are comin’ out. We surrender. Tell ’em, Mr. Dale! God knows ’nough blood’s been spilt.”

I heard their cabin door open. Then it closed with a bang and we heard the heavy bar drop into place. For a moment I believed they had changed their minds; then they crossed our line of vision, the man walking ahead with empty hands held high, his sister walking behind and wildly waving a white cloth. It was the Englishman, skeptical, because of our advice, who dropped the bar.

Cousin began muttering under his breath. I soon discovered the reason. John Ward was approaching the group from the opposite side of the valley and trying to keep some of the whites between him and our cabin. The nearer he drew to the group, the easier this maneuver was. Ward had made a half-circuit of the valley and was advancing through the lines of hidden braves. Cousin would have tried a shot at the renegade if not for fear of instant reprisal on the girl. It was horrible to hear him curse and moan as he nursed the set of triggers.

“Shut up!” I whispered. “Watch them close!”

I meant Granville and his sister; for as they entered the zone held by the enemy I observed a clump of low bushes dipping and swaying behind them. The woman saw something that frightened her, for she pressed close to her brother and shook the white cloth toward the ground. The grotesque fancy came into my head that she would do the same thing if she wanted to shoo some chickens out of a garden.

Granville and his sister walked up to Black Hoof, the woman still waving the cloth to make sure the chief beheld it and recognized its sacred character. Dale turned to give Cousin, the Englishman and me one last chance to save our lives; and the hideous work began.

John Ward seized Patricia from behind, holding her by her arms as a bulwark against our lead. Black Hoof with a lightning gesture raised his ax and struck Dale with the flat of it, sending him crashing to the ground. Almost at the same moment two devils leaped from the ground and with their axes struck Granville and his sister from behind. Black Hoof dropped behind his log the moment he struck Dale.

Ward remained standing, sheltered by the girl. But the two who had killed Granville and his sister forgot us in their lust to secure the scalps. I got one as he was kneeling on the man, and Cousin shot the other through the head before he could touch the woman. I shall never forget the terrible scream which burst from the lips of Patricia Dale. Then she went limp and her head sagged over Ward’s arms, and he began to walk backward with her to the forest.

I ran to the door and Cousin stuck out his foot and tripped me, and my head hit against the logs, and for a minute confused me beyond the possibility of action. When I would have renewed my efforts to pursue and die in attempting the rescue of the girl Ward was dragging her into the woods. Cousin’s arm was around my neck, and as he pulled me back he passionately cried:

“Will it help her to git killed? The ground’s alive with ’em! You can’t more’n show your head afore they’d have your hair!”

I got to a loophole and looked out. Several guns banged and the bullets pattered into the logs. There was no sign of life in the valley beyond this scattering volley, however. Ward and the girl were gone. The dead Indian and dog were partly in view among the weeds beside the lick-block. The gown of the dead woman made a little patch of melancholy color against the green of the grass and ranker ground growth. Granville had been dragged behind some bushes to be scalped. I came near firing when I beheld two Shawnees making for the timber.

“Fellers we potted,” murmured Cousin. “They’ve hitched cords to ’em an’ are draggin’ ’em to the woods so’s no one’ll git their hair.”

From the Granville cabin a gun roared loudly; and an Indian, clawing at his bloody breast, shot up in the heart of a clump of bushes and pitched forward on his face.

“Lawdy! But the Englisher must ’a’ used ’bout a pint o’ buckshot!” exclaimed Cousin admiringly. “Pretty smart, too! He traced the cord back to where th’ Injun was haulin’ on it, an’ trusted to his medicine to make the spreadin’ buckshot fetch somethin’. Wish he had smoothbores an’ a few pounds o’ shot!”

Yells of rage and a furious volley against the two cabins evidenced how the enemy viewed the Englishman’s success. Again the smoothbore roared and a handful of balls scoured another thicket. A warrior leaped from cover and started to run to the woods. Cousin shot him off his feet before he could make a rod.

Our admiration for the smoothbore and its wholesale tactics was beyond expression. The Indians, also, thoroughly appreciated its efficacy, and there was a general backward movement toward the woods. No savage showed himself except for a flash of bronze leg, or the flutter of a hand, too transient for even Cousin to take advantage of. The Englishman fired again, but flushed no game.

“We oughter be goin’,” Cousin mused. “But the ridge behind us is still alive with ’em. Reckon we must wait till it gits dark.”

“Wait till night? Oh, I can’t do that!” I cried.

“Your gal may be skeered to death, but she ain’t been hurt any yet,” he encouraged. “She’s safe till they git her back to the towns. Black Hoof is too smart to hurt her now. If he gits into a tight corner afore he reaches the Ohio he’ll need her to buy an open path with. She ain’t in no danger s’long as he wants her on hand to swap if the settlers git him penned.”

“No danger? And in the hands of that damned renegade!”

“Catahecassa is boss o’ that band. Ward was only a spy. They may burn your gal when they git back on the Scioto where every one can enjoy it. But she won’t be hurt any this side o’ the Ohio. Our first job is to git clear o’ this cabin an’ valley. Then we must head those dogs off an’ do the next job right.”

His words cleared my mind of madness. Instead of the dark forest, forty rods away, marking the end of everything, I need not entirely despair until the girl reached the Scioto.

“They’ve hitched a rope to Dale an’ are draggin’ him to the woods. The damn fool ain’t dead yet. Black Hoof fetched him a crack with the flat of his ax, but they’ll roast him to a frizzle by ’n’ by if our medicine don’t fetch him out of it.”

The man had been grossly mistaken and I pitied him. I wondered what he would think of the influence of trade on red heathens at war when he regained his senses! Surely he would learn the torments of hell when he beheld his daughter a prisoner.

The cabin was like an oven and the sting of powder-smoke made our eyes water. Outside the birds were fluttering about their daily tasks. High among the fleecy cloud-bundles were dark specks which we knew to be turkey-buzzards, already attracted by the dead. For some time the only sign of the enemy’s presence was when three horses galloped down the valley, running from the savages in the edge of the woods. As the animals drew near the cabins and showed an inclination to visit the lick-block a volley from the Indians sent one down. The other two dashed madly toward the Bluestone.

Cousin studied the ridge back of the cabin and failed to discover any suggestion of the hidden foe.

“Which ain’t no token they ain’t there,” he muttered.

“If they hadn’t scared the horses we could have caught a couple!” I lamented.

“We’d been shot off their backs afore we’d gone two rods,” assured my companion. “Let me show you.”

With that he took a big gourd from the corner and painted a face on it with a piece of charcoal found in the fireplace. To a few small wooden pegs stuck in the top he made fast some long strings of tow, shredded out to resemble hair. Then he placed my hat on top of the gourd and the effect was most grotesque. Yet from a distance it easily would be mistaken for a human face.

It was a vast improvement on the old trick of hoisting a hat on a stick. His next maneuver was to enlarge one of the holes I had made in the roof. When he thrust his hands through the hole, as if about to draw himself up, he focused every savage eye on the back of the cabin roof. Through the opening he slowly pushed the gourd, topped by the hat and having long hair hanging down the sides.

The decoy was barely in place before he was on the floor while a volley of lead and a flight of arrows rained against the roof.

“I ’low that they’re still there,” he said.

“They’ll wait till dark and then rush us.”

“They’ll use fire-arrers first,” he corrected. “The Hoof has a poor stomick for losin’ more warriors. He’ll need lots o’ sculps an’ prisoners to make up for the men he’s lost. He’ll take no more chances. When it gits dark they’ll start a blaze on the roof. They’ll creep mighty close without our seein’ ’em. The minute we show ourselves they’ll be ready to jump us. The chief is reckonin’ to take us alive. The towns on the Scioto will need more’n one stake-fire to make ’em forgit what this trip to Virginia has cost ’em.”

The business of waiting was most dreary. There was no water in the cabin, and the sweat from our hands would spoil a priming unless care was taken. At the end of this misery was almost certain captivity, ended by torture. Cousin had the same thought for he spoke up and said:

“I’ll live s’long’s there’s any show to even up the score, but I ain’t goin’ to be kept alive no three days over a slow fire just to make some fun for them damn beggars.”

I watched the bar of sunlight slowly move over the rough puncheon floor. The time passed infernally slowly for men waiting to test a hopeless hazard. By all logic the minutes should have been very precious and should have fairly flashed into eternity. The best we could reasonably wish for was death in combat, or self-inflicted. Yet we cursed the heat, the buzzing flies, the choking fumes of powder, the lack of water, and wished the time away.

I wanted to open the door a bit for a breath of outside air. Cousin objected, saying:

“We could do it, an’ there ain’t no Injuns near ’nough to play us any tricks. But they’d see the door was open, even if only a crack, and they’d know we was gittin’ desperate, or sufferin’ a heap, an’ that would tickle ’em. I’m ag’in’ givin’ ’em even that bit of enjoyment. If we can make a break when it gits dark afore the fire-arrers begin lightin’ things up we’ll try for the Bluestone. If we could git clear o’ this damn bottle we’d stand a chance o’ makin’ our hosses.”

I glanced down at the floor, and my heart tightened a bit. The bar of sunlight had vanished.

“We’ve just ’bout come to it,” gravely remarked Cousin. “I ain’t no talkin’ cuss, but I’ll say right here that I sorter like you, Morris. If things could ’a’ been different, an’ I could be more like other folks, I ’low we’d been good friends.”

“We’re the best of friends, Shelby. As long as I can think I shall remember how you came with me into this trap to help rescue the girl.”

“Shucks! Don’t be a fool!” he growled. “That ain’t nothin’. Once I bu’sted up a Mingo camp to git my dawg. They’d caught the critter an’ was cal’latin’ to sculp him alive. Got him free, too, an’ the damn pup was that stirred up by his feelin’s that he couldn’t tell who was his friends, an’ he chawed my thumb somethin’ cruel.”

He stepped to the loophole, and after peering out mumbled:

“Changin’ mighty smart.”

I glanced out and the ridges were losing their outlines and the valley was becoming blurred. Cousin mused.

“It’ll be comin’ right smart now. Don’t overlook anything.”

We made a last examination of flints and primings, and Cousin softly arranged the heavy door bar so it might be displaced with a single movement. He startled me by abruptly standing erect and cocking his head to one side and remaining motionless.

“The old Englishman!” he exclaimed. “He ain’t fired a shot, or tried to talk with us for a long time.”

I went to the front end of the cabin and put my eye to the peephole. The small window showed black. I called to him several times and received no answer. There was only one conclusion. A chance ball through a loophole or a window had killed the old fellow. Cousin agreed to this. A signal at the mouth of the valley brought us to our toes. It was about to begin. The signal was answered from the ridge behind us.

“They’ve put the stopper in the bottle,” Cousin whispered. “But here’s an idea. The upper cabin, where the Dales was, is empty. If we could sneak in there without bein’ seen we’d have the slimmest sort of a chance to duck back to the ridge while they was shootin’ their fire-arrers at this cabin. There would be a few minutes, when the first flames begin showin’, when every eye would be on this place. If we could only reach the flank o’ the ridge we’d be fools if we couldn’t dodge ’em.”

This appealed to me as being excellent strategy. Knowing the Dales’ cabin was empty, the Indians would not think of paying it much attention at first. To leave our shelter and make the short distance would require darkness. Our greatest danger would be from the Indians on the ridge back of us. By this time they were lined up at the foot of the slope and were all ready to break from cover.

In our favor was the Granville cabin, which would shelter us from the ridge for a bit of the perilous way. Already it was possible, I decided, to crawl the distance without being detected by the enemy across the valley. Cousin refused to run the risk, and argued.

“Every minute gained now gives us that much more of a chance. The Injuns out front ain’t all across the valley any more. They begun creepin’ into the clearin’ the minute it begun growin’ dark. Reckon it’s time they l’arned who’s cooped up in here, so’s they won’t git too bold.”

He removed the bar of the door and through the crevice sounded his terrible war-cry, the scream of a panther. It stabbed the dusk with ear-splitting intensity.

“There! They’ll stop an’ count a dozen afore gittin’ too close,” he muttered as he softly replaced the bar. “They’ll lay mighty low an’ won’t bother to do much but watch the door. I ’low it’ll be hard work to crawl out without they guessin’ somethin’s wrong.”

“Then let’s rip up the floor and dig a hole under the logs,” I suggested.

“We’ll do that,” he quietly agreed.

As cautiously as possible we removed several of the puncheon slabs next to the wall. The base logs were huge fellows and held the floor several feet from the ground. To excavate a hole under either of the four would have required more time than we believed we had to spare. Our plan threatened to be hopeless until Cousin explored the length of the log with his fingers and gave a little cry of delight. He found a hole already dug near the front end of the cabin. It had been the work of the dog. Working with our hunting-knives we loosened the dirt and pawed it behind us and made it larger. At last Cousin pressed me back and ducked his head and shoulders into the hole. Then he drew back and whispered:

“I can git my head an’ shoulders through. ’low I could squirm out o’ hell if I could git my shoulders through. I’ll go ahead an’ you pass out the rifles. Ready?”

I pressed his hand. There followed a few moments of waiting, then a handful of dirt fell into the hole and informed me my companion had squeezed clear of the log and that the ultimate test was to be faced. I passed the rifles, butts first, and felt them gently removed from my grasp. Working noiselessly as possible I soon squirmed out into the refreshing evening air and lay motionless. Cousin was ahead and already worming his way toward the third cabin. My outstretched hand touched the butt of my rifle, and I began creeping after my friend.

I nearly suffocated in crawling by the opening between our cabin and the Granville cabin, for I scarcely ventured to breathe. It seemed as if any one within pistol-shot of me must hear the pounding of my heart. The silence continued, and at last I was hugging the ground at the end of the cabin and for the time sheltered from spying eyes at the foot of the ridge.

A quavering cry rang out at the mouth of the valley. This time it was answered from the clearing on our right as well as from the ridge. The Indians had crept closer, just as Cousin had predicted.

Half a minute passed, then the signal sounded directly ahead of us, or from beyond the Dales’ cabin. The circle was completed. From the ridge soared a burning arrow. It fell short, landing behind the cabin we had vacated. As it gave off no light I surmised it went out on striking the ground.

Cousin drew away from the end of the Granville cabin and was risking the second and last gap. I hurried a bit, fearing more arrows. As I came abreast of the door I wondered what had become of the Englishman. Either the night was playing a trick, or else the door was partly open. I reached out my hand to learn the truth, and touched a cold hand hanging limply over the threshold.

My nerves jumped, but I mastered them by reasoning that the Englishman had been shot by a chance ball and had attempted to leave the cabin, thinking to gain our shelter and to die there. Death had overtaken him as he was opening the door. That it was the Englishman’s hand I had touched was evidenced by the shirt-sleeve, puckered in at the wrist.

I released the poor hand and was resuming my way when a slight sound caused me to hold my breath. Then a heavy weight landed on my back, knocking the breath from my lungs with an explosive grunt. Next, the night was ripped from horizon to horizon with a jagged streak of red.