CHAPTER XX.

THE SOUTH WIND.

The project of placing a dummy on the roof of the block-house, with a view of drawing the fire of the Wyandots, was original with Jo Stinger. It is hard to see what good was attained, for more than enough ammunition remained to prosecute the battle with all energy, whenever the opportunity presented itself to the assailants.

The explanation of the act is found in the mental composition of the frontiersman himself. He had been outwitted more than once by the Indians, and he wished to show them that he had not lost entirely the cunning which had made his name known among many of the tribes that roamed and hunted through Ohio and the Dark and Bloody Ground.

Still further, those men who are accustomed to scenes of danger and daring are not without a certain element of humor in their make-up, and when one's spirits are oppressed for a long period, the rebound, at times, is so sudden that he is impelled to words and acts so incongruous as to excite the wonderment of friends.

Jo constructed the dummy to look as much like himself as possible. The clothing and material for this could be ill spared, but he furnished most of it himself, and when the image was placed in position, he was as impatient as a child for the sport that followed.

Poor distressed Mrs. Preston could see no justification of such levity at so serious a time. Megill and Turner enjoyed it scarcely less than their friend, while the Colonel affected an interest which he was far from feeling.

Blossom Brown laughed heartily over the discomfiture of the red men, and Ned Preston forgot his dread and grief for the moment; but they quickly returned, and the depression of all was doubtless greater from the temporary lifting of spirits the incident caused.

The Wyandots had hardly discovered the deception, when all three of the men at the loopholes fired into them. The shots produced results too, and the assailants became more cautious of the Kentuckians, who had learned to use their guns with such accuracy of aim.

Jo Stinger, in spreading the wetted blankets over the roof, had shown not only skill and courage, but good judgment. The protection was secured at the remotest points, which it was impossible to reach from either of the trap-doors, without exposing themselves to the certain aim of the Wyandot sharpshooters. The uncovered portions were those within reach.

Jo Stinger and Colonel Preston passed to the southern side of the building, from which they could look out upon the nearest cabin. Here a number of Indians were gathered, as there had been almost from the first.

"Your errand, I've no doubt, Jo, is the same as mine," said the officer, in a guarded voice.

"There's no doubt of that," replied the scout, "always providin' yours is the same as mine."

"I'm watching the wind."

"So am I."

"How do you find it?"

"It's blowing from the south."

"I am afraid so," remarked the Colonel, with a pang of misgiving, as he received a puff through the loophole, directly in the face; "is it stronger than before?"

"It's blowing harder than it did a half hour ago, but not so hard as two hours since."

"The worst feature about the business is that the wind is not only from the wrong point of the compass, but it is increasing."

"You speak the solemn truth, Colonel, but it aint sartin the varmints have got us anyway--helloa!"

To the consternation of every one in the block-house the tread of feet was heard on the roof at that moment. Some one ran nimbly along the slabs, stooping down and holding himself from slipping by grasping the ridge with his hands.

By what possible means he gained this perch, was beyond the conjecture of any one; but the crisis was too grave to admit of an instant's delay. The warrior, beyond a doubt, had assumed this perilous risk with a view of tearing off the blankets, which shielded the roof from the flaming arrows.

Jo Stinger dropped his gun, sprang upon a stool, and leaped upward through the trap-door. Had he vaulted upon the roof with less celerity, he would have been dispatched by the Indian, who would have had him almost at his mercy; but the first warning the Wyandot received of his coming was his arrival.

The scout was aroused, and no athlete could have handled himself more deftly than did he. The very moment he was outside he moved several feet away from the opening and placed himself astride of the ridge pole.

This was the most secure position he could hold, and he peered around in the darkness and listened for something that would tell him where his enemy was. His unusually keen vision was of no use under the circumstances. There was not the slightest ember burning near him, nor was there a ray of moonlight or starlight to pierce the blackness of night.

But the Wyandot was there. He had removed several of the blankets, and was working at the others when the sound of the trap-door told him the important truth that a second person was on the roof.

The warrior could have slid down to the eaves and dropped to the ground without injury to himself; but that would have forced him to leave his work uncompleted, and he was too true a brave to do that.

Nothing loth to engage in a personal encounter, he began stealing along the ridge toward the point where he believed the white man was awaiting him. As Stinger held himself rigid and motionless, his precise location could not be determined at once; but the Indian's approach, guarded though it was, told Jo exactly where to search for his adversary.

Never was a barbarian taken more completely at fault. He made a fatal miscalculation, and one minute later, when he fell to the ground, he was as lifeless as the dummy which preceded him.

How this savage managed to reach the roof, puzzled Stinger beyond expression. He sat bolt upright on the ridge, looking around in the blank darkness, listening and thinking, and speculating upon the all-absorbing problem.

"It must be they rigged up some sort of ladder by cutting down a sapling; then they've leaned it aginst the eaves and he has shinned up, almost rubbing agin the muzzles of our guns,--but he won't climb any more ladders of _that_ kind I reckon."

There was reason to fear the attempt would be repeated, and the scout retained his perch fully ten minutes, that he might be prepared to nip such a scheme in the bud.

Nothing to cause alarm occurred. Jo proceeded to investigate as carefully as he could the mischief done by the Wyandot who paid so dearly for it.

To his dismay the scout soon learned that the Indian had almost completed the task he undertook. He had torn off the frosty blankets and sent them rolling and sliding to the ground, as though they were so many ribbons fluttering in the wind.

Great damage in this respect had been done, and it was irreparable.

The scout had hitched along until close to the trap-door, where he paused a moment listening, in the hope of learning something of the movements of the Wyandots.

Loth as he was to admit it, he could not shut out the terrifying fact that the wind, which had set in from the south, was still rising and must soon reach a degree that would tempt the red men to fire the cabin, with the almost certain prospect of the flames communicating to the block-house.

Jo was contemplating this terrible contingency, when he heard several signals between parties near at hand. He had no way of knowing their meaning, but, while he was looking and listening, another burning arrow suddenly shot up from the edge of the clearing, in its curvilinear flight for the roof of the block-house.

"I wonder how near that is coming to _me_," muttered Jo, looking upward at the comet-like missile; "it turns beautiful--now it seems to halt like a swimmer looking for a spot where to dive--now it turns--down she comes--she is going to land on the roof sure--she's coming for me--_great guns_!"

Up went the trap-door, and down shot the scout like a seal who plunges into the air-hole just in time to elude the spear of the Esquimaux.

The spot vacated by the hunter was struck the fraction of a second after by the arrow, which would have played sad havoc with him, had he been less alert in his movements.

The expectation of the garrison, now that the roof had been cleared of the blankets, was that the Wyandots would repeat the bombardment of burning missiles, with an absolute certainty of success.

Such, there is every reason to believe, would have been the case, but for the favoring air which rendered any repetition of that species of warfare unnecessary.

It had ceased snowing, and the wind from the south was blowing strongly. Everything favored the method of attack which Stinger heard the chieftain Waughtauk declare should be used against the settlers.

By common agreement and without a word, the entire party passed to the southern side of the building and peered through the loopholes at the cabin, in which it was known a number of their enemies were gathered.

"If they have fixed upon this plan of assault," said Colonel Preston to Stinger, "why do they wait?"

"The varmints are good judges of weather, and they may be sartin the wind will be stronger by and by."

"But it seems strong enough to bring the flames over to us, and----"

"_They've set fire to the cabin!_"

The exclamation came from Ned Preston, who was at the elbow of Jo Stinger. Every one who was looking out in the darkness saw that he spoke the appalling truth.

The building nearest them had a door and window on the first floor, and two windows above, all facing the block-house. It was in the lower story that Waughtauk and his most trusted warriors had been grouped for hours, after having decided what should be the line of action toward the besieged settlers.

From the window on the lower floor suddenly issued a tongue of flame, which darted out and back with great rapidity. Then the whole interior became one vivid red glow, fire was seen shooting in every direction, and volumes of smoke began pouring from the upper windows.

The torch was applied, and the last, final test of the block-house had come.

The garrison were awed spectators of the scene. All understood what it meant, and there was no call for words; but as the southern side of the block-house, as well as the roof, were to be exposed to a furnace-like heat, the water was gathered in vessels, where it could be used the instant needed.

The Wyandots had hurried out of the building before the flames were fairly going, so as not to expose themselves to the rifles of the Kentuckians; but as the flames spread and the circle of illumination widened, the dusky foes were seen skulking behind the other cabin, along the stockade, and in the clearing, watching the destruction, and the massive block-house, whose heavy logs, steep overhanging roof, rude chimney and rugged outlines loomed up in the crimson glow against the background of blank darkness.

There was not a snowflake in the air, but the spotless white on the ground showed in many places where the mantle had been disturbed by the moccasins of the Wyandots.

The glare seemed to reach the clouds, and the myriads of sparks which went drifting to the northward, and falling over an area of many acres, brought out the gaunt, skeleton-like figures of the trees, which seemed to look solemnly forth from the dim woods, where the white and red men only met in scenes of violence and blood.

The garrison allowed themselves to be restrained by no sentimentality, for it was an hour when every shot counted. The glow of the ascending flames continually flung back the sheltering mantle of night enveloping the figures of the warriors, who were not always quick to remember the danger to which they were thus exposed.

But when four or five well-aimed rifles were fired from the loopholes, that were lit up with an illumination greater than that of the noonday sun, the survivors made haste to run back into the gloom, or to throw themselves behind some shelter.

The situation of those in the block-house became distressing beyond expression. The wind, blowing strongly in that direction, quickly filled the room with suffocating smoke, which, for a minute or two, threatened to overcome every one. The vapor, however, gave way to the heat, which was uncomfortable, although, so long as the logs did not take the flames, they could not cause much suffering.

The smoke and its miseries awoke little Mary and Susie Preston, whose terror, when they saw through the loopholes the burning cabin, and who were not too young to understand their peril, touched the hearts of all. They began crying piteously and, trembling in every limb, threw their arms first about the neck of mamma and then of papa, sobbing and clinging convulsively to each in turn.

"The wicked Indians will kill you: we know they will; they will kill papa and mamma, and that will break our hearts."

After a time, the mother was able to quiet them, and then both, without any agreement, knelt at her knee and prayed with the pathetic faith of childhood.

"Our Heavenly Father, don't let the bad Indians hurt papa nor mamma, nor Jo, nor Mr. Turner, nor Mr. Megill, nor cousin Ned, nor Blossom, nor us. Don't let them hurt anybody; take care of us all; make us good girls. Amen."

Who shall say that the petition from the hearts of the innocent and trusting little ones was not wafted upward by the wings of listening angels, who were quick to bear the message to Him whose ear is never closed? And who shall say that He, leaning over the celestial battlements, did not look down on that wild scene in the grim forests, and stay the hand of the vengeful Wyandot, as it was raised to smite his pale-face brother to the earth?