CHAPTER XXI.

CONCLUSION.

The wind from the south was so strong that most of the large sparks capable of carrying the fire were thrown beyond the block-house, falling about the stockade, on the clearing, and among the trees, where they kindled spiral serpents of flame and smoke, which quickly died of themselves.

But as the blaze grew hotter and hotter, it seemed to converge its fierce heat upon the doomed block-house, as the blowpipe melts the obdurate metal. The upper room became filled with the quivering air, and more than one wondered how it was the logs withstood the furnace-like blast so long.

Although the two cabins were closer to each other than to the fort, yet the untouched one was in no danger because of the direction of the wind. The structure which had been lighted, burned furiously, and those who were watching its progress soon detected smoke from the block-house itself.

Jo Stinger was surprised to learn that, instead of being on the roof, it was from one of the windows almost directly under him--almost the last place where he expected the flames to catch.

While he was peering downward through the openings at his feet, he discovered the blaze.

A quart or two of water, well applied, extinguished it, and he called at the others to make known at once any other flame they might see. The warning was scarcely given, when Blossom Brown shouted--

"Here it am! here it am! burnin' like all creation!"

The dusky lad was not mistaken, for the logs below them had caught again, and considerable water was required before it succumbed. However, it went out at last, and the thick smoke and steam climbed upward into the face of Blossom, who coughed until he seemed nearly racked to pieces.

Doubtless the Wyandots could have poured in a volley of shots through the loopholes, which would have slain a number of the hapless defenders; but now, when nothing could prevent the capture of the entire party, the red men preferred that the company should fall into their hands intact.

Ned Preston was standing at the south-east angle of the block-house, looking toward the burning building, when he saw something which, for the time, made him doubt the evidence of his own senses.

His position was such that he could look directly along the western side of the cabin, which was unharmed by the flames. This, it will be noted, was the portion that adjoined the burning structure. On this side of the building, which was not burning, the heat was not very great, but the illumination was so strong that it was as light as midday, and no Wyandot ventured near it, through fear of the rifles of the Kentuckians.

The youth was watching the cabin, around and through which the flames were raging so furiously, when an Indian warrior walked into view. From what point he came, the watcher could not tell: the first he saw of him was when he approached the logs of the other structure. He moved slowly, as if surveying all sides, and when he turned and reached the door, he was seen to raise his hand and pass within, where, of course, he vanished from sight.

This of itself would not have been so extraordinary, but for the fact that the handsome face, distinctly shown in the glare, the slight, graceful figure, carrying a long bow in his right hand, and displaying the quiver of arrows over his shoulder, identified the Indian as Deerfoot the Shawanoe.

Despite the frightful situation, Ned Preston could scarcely restrain a cheer, for he was thrilled with a pleasure beyond description over the unexpected discovery that his devoted friend was still alive.

Ned darted to the side of Jo Stinger and told him what he had seen.

"Are you sure of it, younker?" demanded the scout sharply.

"Sure of it? It is impossible that I should be mistaken; I know him as well as I do you, and he stood in the full glare of the firelight."

"You're right; it _was_ the Shawanoe; I seen him; I thought the young varmint was dead, but he's a good deal more alive this minute than we are."

"But, Jo, what does it mean? Why did he come out there where he could be seen, and go into the building?"

"He wanted us to notice him, and it was the best thing he could do. The varmints toward the river and in the clearin' must have cotched sight of him; but before they could larn his name and post-office address, he was inside."

"But I can't understand his cause for entering the cabin any way; what good can he do us there?"

"I've my 'spicion--_there_! that's what I expected!"

A crackling, snapping sound overhead told the alarming truth: the roof was burning fiercely, and there was no possible way of putting out the flames. In fact, it had been ablaze some time, for the fiery points were seen in several places along the ridge-pole, fast eating their way, so to speak, into the vitals of the building.

A minute after the sparks began falling through upon the floor, the vapor loaded with fire filtered through the loopholes, and the upper story had become untenable.

"Down the ladder!" said Jo Stinger; "it won't do to wait any longer."

He led the way himself, and the others followed in rather a pell-mell fashion. All, however, safely reached the lower story, where the situation was improved for a brief time only.

Smoke and fire were around them; the air was thick with strangling vapor and blistering sparks; the glow illuminated the interior, as if with a thousand lamps, and the ghastly countenances were rendered more unearthly by the lurid light which permeated everywhere.

Megill, Turner and Stinger were grim and silent. They had faced death before, and they were certain always to meet him with the front of heroes. The pale face of Mrs. Preston was calm, and she was sustained by the unfaltering trust of the Christian who forgets not that, however great the sufferings awaiting him, they can never equal the anguish of Him who gave up his life on Calvary for the world.

She kept her little ones close to her side. She had held a rifle when the danger first appeared; but she did not discharge it, and it was now cast aside. She remained near her husband, who, in a low voice, spoke encouraging words to her and his little ones, and who was resolved to die fighting in defence of those who were a thousand times dearer to him than his own life.

Blossom Brown was stupefied by the overwhelming terror of the scene. He moved about in a stolid, ox-like fashion, capable of obeying blindly whatever those around told him to do.

It was apparent even to the little children, who had hushed their cries, that it was impossible to stay more than a few minutes longer in the block-house. It was already on fire in a dozen different places, and was burning furiously. The fugitives might remain huddled together a short while, but only to meet the most awful of deaths; or they could venture forth and fall into the hands of the treacherous Wyandots.

"The door of that cabin over there is partly open, as you can obsarve," said Jo Stinger; "the logs haven't been scorched by fire, as you can also obsarve; we'll make a run for that door, and arter we get inside, we'll fight till the death, as you'll also obsarve."

"But they can shoot us down while we're on the way," said Colonel Preston.

"They can, but they won't; for they'd rather make us prisoners. No red varmint shall ever take _me_ captive."

"Nor me either," added Turner and Megill together.

"That seems to be the only thing we can do. We ought to be able to make a stand there until to-morrow, when there may be help from Wild Oaks."

"All make ready; I'll lead the way."

There was not a heart from which a fervent prayer was not sent up to heaven; but the men compressed their lips and nerved themselves for the final effort. Colonel Preston caught up Mary the elder, kissed and pressed her to his heart. She returned the caresses, and he held her on his left arm, while the right hand grasped his rifle. The wife did the same with Susie, for the weapon she had cast aside was too valuable to leave behind.

"Hadn't I better lead de way?" asked Blossom Brown, crowding forward.

"Why?"

"'Cause I'll kind ob darken tings, so de Injines can't see us."

"Wait till we start, and then you may lead if you can."

Jo Stinger leaned his long rifle against the wall, and with a firm, strong hand removed the bars one after the other. Then the door was drawn inward, he picked up his gun, and looked around at the group.

"Foller me!"

As he spoke, he strode forth, the others close on his heels. Blossom Brown made a plunge to pass the leader, but as he did not know which way to turn, he fell back.

The scout diverged to the left, and, with the same deliberate tread, passed over the open space between the burning cabin and the blazing block-house. A short time before, this would have been impossible; but the cabin was so nearly destroyed that the heat could be borne, although it caused each to hold his breath, it was so intolerable.

Scores of the Wyandots were watching the fugitives, and whoops and shouts of exultation rent the air, as a dozen advanced to meet the captives.

The latter hurried forward a few paces more, when Jo Stinger shouted--

"Now run for your lives!"

They were within fifty feet of the open door of the second cabin, through which he plunged the next instant like a cannon-shot, the others following pell-mell. The movement was so sudden and unexpected by the Wyandots crowding forward that it was virtually finished before they could interfere.

Ned Preston purposely threw himself behind the others, that he might, so far as possible, help protect his aunt and cousins. He was about to follow them into the building, when one warrior, more agile than the other, bounded forward with uplifted tomahawk.

Before he could throw it, and before Ned could use his gun, a resounding twang was heard from the nearest window, and an arrow from the royal bow of Deerfoot the Shawanoe transfixed him.

Ned Preston was inside in a twinkling. The Wyandots, infuriated over the trick played them, made a rush, with the intention of forcing an entrance at all hazards; but they were met by a rattling fire, which sent them skurrying like rabbits to cover. Every window seemed to bristle with rifles, and the shots were so numerous that Waughtauk and his warriors saw that others than the fugitives were defending the building.

Such was the fact. When Macaiah Preston, the leading settler at Wild Oaks, sent Deerfoot to apprise Colonel Preston of his danger, he did not contemplate doing anything more. But his own son was involved, and he became so uneasy that he consulted his neighbors, who agreed that help should be dispatched to Fort Bridgman without delay.

Accompanied by ten skilled riflemen, all of whom had seen service on the frontier, he set out for the station thirty miles away. He reached the neighborhood quite late at night of the second day of the siege, and on the way he met and was joined by Deerfoot, who had started to obtain his help.

As the Wyandots felt certain of their prey, they had relaxed their vigilance to a great extent. It was a curious fact that, while Jo Stinger was engaged on his reconnoissance, Deerfoot and several of the new arrivals were doing the same, although neither suspected the presence of the other.

The plan of Waughtauk was soon learned, and it was then decided to enter the cabin, and be guided by events. This was a task of extreme difficulty, but with the assistance of Deerfoot, who was the first to open the way, they got within the building without detection by their enemies. Then, with loaded and cocked rifles, they held themselves ready for any emergency.

As the crisis approached, Deerfoot purposely showed himself to the garrison, that they might recognize him and learn that they were not deserted. At the same time Macaiah Preston made several guarded signals to Jo Stinger, which that scout saw and understood, though no one else did. He said nothing to his friends, but it was this knowledge which gave such assurance to his movements.

The numbers within the cabin rendered it practically impregnable to twice the force at the command of Waughtauk, chieftain of the Wyandots. The illumination from the burning embers was so full that any warrior who ventured to show himself was riddled before he could approach within a hundred feet of the building.

This "electric light" lasted until after daylight, at which hour not a solitary hostile was visible. The single structure that had been left standing contained a stronger force than that of the red men who had destroyed the other two.

There was no move made until noon, when Deerfoot ventured into the woods on a careful and prolonged reconnoissance. When he came back, he reported of a verity that Waughtauk and his Indians had gone, and in all probability were miles distant.

It was deemed best, however, for the settlers to stay where they were, until the succeeding morning. This was done, and, at an early hour, the whole company started for Wild Oaks, on the Ohio.

The journey was ended without special incident, and just as the sun went down behind the western wilderness, the settlement was reached, and all danger was past.

"Thank heaven!" exclaimed Colonel Preston, looking reverently upward; "we have been saved by fire indeed."

"And did you ever think we wouldn't be?" asked Susie, his younger daughter.

"Well, I must own that I gave up once."

"That is wicked, papa," said the little one reproachfully; "I _knew_ God would take care of us all, and the bad Indians wouldn't hurt us, 'cause Mary and I prayed to Him, and He heard us."

"God bless you--I believe you!" replied the father, with misty eyes, as he tossed the darlings in air one after the other, caught them in his arms, and kissed them again and again.

We have not dwelt on the meeting in the cabin, which survived the flames, between the despairing fugitives and their rescuers. Its joyful nature may be imagined. The countenance of the handsome, willowy young Shawanoe was aglow with pleasure, when he grasped the hand of the no less delighted Ned Preston, who had believed him dead until he saw him walk forth in the glare of the burning building.

"You must come and live with us," said Ned, at the end of the journey, and after the others had thanked the wonderful youth for his services, which were beyond value.

"Deerfoot will visit his friends," said he, holding the hand of Ned, and looking affectionately in the face of the youthful pioneer; "but his home is in the woods. He loves to lie under the trees and listen to the sighing of the wind among the branches; he loves to watch the clouds, as they float like snowy canoes across the blue sky; he loves to listen to the soft flow of the river, to crawl under the edge of the rock, and hear the snowflakes sifting down on the brown leaves; his soul rejoices at the crashing of the thunderbolts, which split the trees like rotten fruit. When Deerfoot is tired, he can wrap his blanket around him and sleep anywhere; when he is hungry, he has his bow and arrow which can bring down the deer, and the bear, and the bison; when he is thirsty, he can drink the cold water which drips from the mossy rocks; when he is in trouble, he will pray to the Great Spirit of the white man, who will not turn his ear away.

"No, Deerfoot must live in the forests, but he will always love the pale-faces, and perhaps," added the Shawanoe, looking Ned Preston straight in the eye, "it may be the fortune of Deerfoot to be of help again to you."

"I know how gladly it will be given," said Ned gratefully; "and if there ever should come any need of _our_ help, it will be the pleasure of our lives to prove how much we appreciate your friendship."

The sun had gone down, and the shadows of night were creeping through the dim, silent woods, when Deerfoot the Shawanoe crossed the clearing which surrounded the settlement, and, pausing on the border of the forest, he waved a good-bye to his friends. Then he turned and vanished from sight.

But there seemed to rest the mantle of prophecy on his graceful shoulders, when he intimated that it might be his good fortune to render service to Ned Preston and his friends. The opportunity came sooner than any one anticipated, and what befell the boy pioneer, and what was done by the young Shawanoe, will be told in the second volume of the "Boy Pioneer Series," entitled--

_Ned in the Woods: a Tale of the Early Days in the West._

FAMOUS STANDARD JUVENILE LIBRARIES.

ANY VOLUME SOLD SEPARATELY AT $1.00 PER VOLUME

(Except the Sportsman's Club Series, Frank Nelson Series and Jack Hazard Series.).

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HORATIO ALGER, JR.

The enormous sales of the books of Horatio Alger, Jr., show the greatness of his popularity among the boys, and prove that he is one of their most favored writers. I am told that more than half a million copies altogether have been sold, and that all the large circulating libraries in the country have several complete sets, of which only two or three volumes are ever on the shelves at one time. If this is true, what thousands and thousands of boys have read and are reading Mr. Alger's books! His peculiar style of stories, often imitated but never equaled, have taken a hold upon the young people, and, despite their similarity, are eagerly read as soon as they appear.

Mr. Alger became famous with the publication of that undying book, "Ragged Dick, or Street Life in New York." It was his first book for young people, and its success was so great that he immediately devoted himself to that kind of writing. It was a new and fertile field for a writer then, and Mr. Alger's treatment of it at once caught the fancy of the boys. "Ragged Dick" first appeared in 1868, and ever since then it has been selling steadily, until now it is estimated that about 200,000 copies of the series have been sold.

--_Pleasant Hours for Boys and Girls._

A writer for boys should have an abundant sympathy with them. He should be able to enter into their plans, hopes, and aspirations. He should learn to look upon life as they do. Boys object to be written down to. A boy's heart opens to the man or writer who understands him.

--From _Writing Stories for Boys_, by Horatio Alger, Jr.

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HARRY CASTLEMON.

=HOW I CAME TO WRITE MY FIRST BOOK.=

When I was sixteen years old I belonged to a composition class. It was our custom to go on the recitation seat every day with clean slates, and we were allowed ten minutes to write seventy words on any subject the teacher thought suited to our capacity. One day he gave out "What a Man Would See if He Went to Greenland." My heart was in the matter, and before the ten minutes were up I had one side of my slate filled. The teacher listened to the reading of our compositions, and when they were all over he simply said: "Some of you will make your living by writing one of these days." That gave me something to ponder upon. I did not say so out loud, but I knew that my composition was as good as the best of them. By the way, there was another thing that came in my way just then. I was reading at that time one of Mayne Reid's works which I had drawn from the library, and I pondered upon it as much as I did upon what the teacher said to me. In introducing Swartboy to his readers he made use of this expression: "No visible change was observable in Swartboy's countenance." Now, it occurred to me that if a man of his education could make such a blunder as that and still write a book, I ought to be able to do it, too. I went home that very day and began a story, "The Old Guide's Narrative," which was sent to the _New York Weekly_, and came back, respectfully declined. It was written on both sides of the sheets but I didn't know that this was against the rules. Nothing abashed, I began another, and receiving some instruction, from a friend of mine who was a clerk in a book store, I wrote it on only one side of the paper. But mind you, he didn't know what I was doing. Nobody knew it; but one day, after a hard Saturday's work--the other boys had been out skating on the brick-pond--I shyly broached the subject to my mother. I felt the need of some sympathy. She listened in amazement, and then said: "Why, do you think you could write a book like that?" That settled the matter, and from that day no one knew what I was up to until I sent the first four volumes of Gunboat Series to my father. Was it work? Well, yes; it was hard work, but each week I had the satisfaction of seeing the manuscript grow until the "Young Naturalist" was all complete.

--_Harry Castlemon in the Writer._

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EDWARD S. ELLIS.

EDWARD S. ELLIS, the popular writer of boys' books, is a native of Ohio, where he was born somewhat more than a half-century ago. His father was a famous hunter and rifle shot, and it was doubtless his exploits and those of his associates, with their tales of adventure which gave the son his taste for the breezy backwoods and for depicting the stirring life of the early settlers on the frontier.

Mr. Ellis began writing at an early age and his work was acceptable from the first. His parents removed to New Jersey while he was a boy and he was graduated from the State Normal School and became a member of the faculty while still in his teens. He was afterward principal of the Trenton High School, a trustee and then superintendent of schools. By that time his services as a writer had become so pronounced that he gave his entire attention to literature. He was an exceptionally successful teacher and wrote a number of text-books for schools, all of which met with high favor. For these and his historical productions, Princeton College conferred upon him the degree of Master of Arts.

The high moral character, the clean, manly tendencies and the admirable literary style of Mr. Ellis' stories have made him as popular on the other side of the Atlantic as in this country. A leading paper remarked some time since, that no mother need hesitate to place in the hands of her boy any book written by Mr. Ellis. They are found in the leading Sunday-school libraries, where, as may well be believed, they are in wide demand and do much good by their sound, wholesome lessons which render them as acceptable to parents as to their children. All of his books published by Henry T. Coates & Co. are re-issued in London, and many have been translated into other languages. Mr. Ellis is a writer of varied accomplishments, and, in addition to his stories, is the author of historical works, of a number of pieces of popular music and has made several valuable inventions. Mr. Ellis is in the prime of his mental and physical powers, and great as have been the merits of his past achievements, there is reason to look for more brilliant productions from his pen in the near future.

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=THE BLAZING ARROW.=

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End of Project Gutenberg's Ned in the Block-House, by Edward S. Ellis