CHAPTER VI.

WITHOUT THE FORT.

During the brief period of time that intervened between the battle at the gates and the discharge of blazing arrows at the fort itself, the beautiful fire-lands had not escaped the vengeance of the settlers’ enemies.

The deserted cabins were given over to the mercies of the torch, and the work of months perished in a few hours. The red burners were accompanied by British soldiers, who outdid the fiends of the forest in heartless ferocity, and at nightfall they returned to the besiegers loaded with plunder and glutted with diabolism.

“Well, what are you going to do with your man, now that you’ve got him?” asked Colonel O’Neill of Royal Funk, when the outlaw reappeared at the British head-quarters, fresh from the work of destruction above referred to.

“What am I going to do with ’im, colonel? Why, I’ll tell you. It was my intention to execute ’im on top o’ the hill, yesterday; but I’ve changed my mind. There’s a girl in Fort Strong—a girl whom I want—Huldah Armstrong, and strange to say, Card Belt wants her, too.”

“Ah! I see,” said the British officer, with a smile. “He is your rival.”

“Yes, colonel; but I hold the best hand now, as you will admit by glancing at the cards. We are bound to take the fort.”

“It will be ours before another sunset. You know what Strong is doing?”

“Andrews told me, an hour since. But can we rely on him?”

“We can,” said O’Neill, assuringly, and with emphasis. “Strong, at the heart, is a coward, yet he will do desperate things. He was a secret Tory in Herkimer county, New York, during the Revolution, and while campaigning in that region, I became acquainted with him. More than once he furnished me with valuable information concerning the movements of the enemy, and I believe that the rebels never suspected him. His loyalty to King George has never for a moment abated. I tell you we have a friend in Fort Strong, without whom we could do nothing. For Splitlog was about to relinquish the siege when the deserter reached our camp with Strong’s proposition. Now the Indians will stay with us. But the thread of your story has been broken. I want to know what you are going to do with the squatter.”

“Oh, I’ll tell you in a few words,” answered the leader of the Night-Hawks. “I’m going to marry Huldah Armstrong in his presence, after the Wyandot fashion, and then—why, then I’m going to dispose of him.”

“After the Wyandot fashion, also, I suppose,” smiled the colonel.

“Just so,” said Funk, returning the smile. “When do you open the battle?”

“The Indians are preparing the fiery arrows now,” was the reply. “Ha! there goes one, already!” and the colonel’s hand directed the outlaw’s gaze to a blazing arrow shooting toward the fort.

It was quickly followed by another and another, until a perfect shower of fiery missiles rained upon the fort.

But the firm and dry clap-boards that formed the roof resisted nobly, and the arrows rebounded and dropped into the yard below.

“We must get the arrows _under_ the boards,” said O’Neill, turning to the chief, Splitlog, who stood at his side. “Send some of your bravest Wyandots nearer the fort, and tell them to shoot their red arrows beneath the roof.”

“Indians get shot down if they go nearer fort,” returned the chief, with a shrug of the shoulders. “Let white chief send _his_ men.”

O’Neill bit his lip with anger.

“Who proposed this attack?” he cried, with flashing eyes. “I brought my men hither at your request. They were not to risk their lives. If your Indians are brave, they can fire the fort.”

Splitlog turned away without another word, and a few minutes later a number of fiery arrows were seen to ascend almost from beneath the very palisades. Several remained in the roof, and Colonel O’Neill clapped his hands over the demon’s success.

Thus far during the battle not a shot had been fired from the fort. The allies wondered at this silence; but they were not cognizant of the thrilling scenes being enacted behind the strong walls.

Lashed to a tree on the river’s bank, and strongly guarded by three white men and two Wyandots, Wolf-Cap saw the discharge of the fiery missiles. Since his arrival among the allies he had seen nothing of Royal Funk; but he knew that that worthy had absented himself but temporarily.

“We’ll get the fort to-night,” said one of the outlaws, turning to Wolf-Cap, during the flight of the blazing shafts.

“Sir, you don’t know who defends it,” the trapper said, quickly, and with pride. “Yon walls protect the bravest men in New Connecticut.”

“But, Captain Strong—what do you think of _him_?” asked the outlaw, with a curious smile.

“He has completely deceived me.”

The white guards exchanged significant glances.

“What do you know about him, Belt?”

“I know that he intends to betray a lot of women and children to the tender mercies of the tomahawk. I’ve seen Mary Sawyer in your camp. I heard the three pistol-shots on the hill. I have heard something about Strong’s antecedents, and, putting things together, I kin read the blackest tale of treason on record.”

“Wouldn’t you like to be in the fort, just now?” taunted Sam Cole, the Night-Hawk.

The trapper’s eyes flashed; but he said nothing.

“But how about that notice you put on your door for us? You said that no walls should protect you while you fought us.”

“I intend to adhere to that declaration,” said Wolf-Cap firmly.

“So you wouldn’t creep into Fort Strong if we war to let you go?”

“I would not!”

The outlaws laughed derisively.

“I’ve a mind to try you,” said Cole, drawing his knife and glancing at his fellow-guards.

Wolf-Cap said nothing.

The place where they stood was thickly studded with young trees and tall grass, the latter much soiled by human feet. A fire some distance down the river threw a weird light over the scene; but toward the fort, in its river front, the depth of darkness prevailed.

The Indian guards gazed at the outlaw with an immobility of countenance, and when he stepped toward the trapper with uplifted knife, they did not interpose a hand. They had lately taken their stations as Wolf Cap’s guards, and had watched the helpless man with vigilant eyes.

“I say I’ve a mind to try you, Wolf-Cap,” reiterated the outlaw.

“No, it won’t do, Sam,” suddenly cried another, springing forward and laying his brawny hand on Cole’s shoulder. “He’ll escape if you cut his cords. What do a squatter’s words amount to? Let him be!”

For a moment Cole glared fiercely upon the speaker, and then sullenly dropped the knife again.

“I’ve heard that Card Belt is a man of his word,” he said. “And I want to try ’im.”

With the last word the outlaw shook the hand from his shoulder, and stepped toward the trapper again.

“Don’t do it, Sam.”

“I will!”

“You shan’t!”

The knife of the last speaker suddenly leaped from its leathern sheath, and he advanced upon Cole, who turned and pushed him back.

“Stand off, Duke White,” were Cole’s menacing words. “I don’t want a difficulty with you. I know what I’m doing. I’ll try Wolf-Cap if I wish to.”

“You shall not!” and White tried to step between Cole and the captive.

But, with a fierce oath, Cole hurled Duke from the tree. Duke recovered in a moment, and with all the baser passions of his soul fully aroused, he sprung at his Titan comrade.

Cole saw the movement, and received the attack with the knife, for it was apparent that the blood of a Night-Hawk had to be shed by a brother’s hand.

I say that Cole met the attack with the knife, and blood flowed from the wound inflicted in Duke White’s breast by the shining steel. The next moment they had grappled, and swayed to and fro in the struggle of life and death like contending giants.

The third white guard started forward to strike Cole with clubbed rifle, when one of the Indians, with a quick glance at his companion, leaped toward the tree.

A knife flashed in the brave’s hands, and when it descended Wolf-Cap sprung from the sycamore—free! He saw the second savage hurl the third guard into the murky waves of the Huron, and glanced at the struggling Night-Hawks, now on the ground.

“Wolf-Cap run down the river,” said the trapper’s deliverer, quickly pointing down the stream.

“No! I go to the fort, Silver Hand. Seek the black cave. I’ll meet you there at dawn. Quick! They come.”

He spoke in the Wyandot tongue, and the next instant bounded toward the fort. He glided rapidly through the gloom, avoiding the numerous stumps, and yells on the river-bank told him that the deed just enacted there had been discovered.

But he ran on, unarmed, save with a knife, which Silver Hand had thrust into his grip, and he struck the ponderous gate of the palisade twice with the bony hilt.

“Guard! guard!” he shouted, and then he heard the sentry speak to some one beyond the pickets.

“Listen! I know that voice.”

“’Tis me—Wolf-Cap,” called the trapper quickly upon the guard’s words. “I don’t want to get in. Captain Strong is a traitor; he has promised to betray you into the hands of the Indians!”

A moment of silence followed. The trapper had paused for breath.

“Your roof is on fire. Put it out, and see to the traitor. Hold out like men. You’ll get help from outside by-and-by.”

Then Wolf-Cap turned from the gate and started toward the river.

The darkness favored his flight. As yet no attack had been made upon the fort from the stream. The major portion of the besiegers were on the hill, the summit of which was on a level with the embrasures, into which the foe could shoot with effect.

Thus far the enemy had trusted to the blazing arrows; but, as the trapper gained the stream, a volley was poured into the block-house.

The next moment it was returned by the besieged, and numerous cries told Wolf-Cap that some of the foe had fallen.

“I don’t like to leave the boys,” said the trapper, sadly, pausing in his flight, and listening to the battle which had now opened furiously. “And Huldah is yonder in the midst of it all. But the Indians wait for me at the cave. Three can do more than one. I wish the two war here now; then—”

There was the quick, sharp snapping of a twig, and Silver Hand and his assistant stood before the trapper.

“We no go to cave,” said Silver Hand. “Hide here ’while to watch fight. But look, Wolf-Cap! roof all on fire. Why don’t pale-faces put it out? They got water in fort.”

“Yes, but the traitor has disabled them somehow. I’m afraid it’s all day with the brave fellows. But they shan’t die alone!” and the trapper started forward.

“Silver Hand and Golden Cheek go with Wolf-Cap,” said the Wyandot, and a moment later the trio were hurrying toward the seemingly doomed structure.

That side of the roof which looked to the hill was in a furious blaze, which threw a lurid glare upon the battle-ground, and the discharges of musketry by both parties resembled a pitched battle.

Suddenly the artillery of heaven added its thunder to the fight, and great drops of rain began to fall thick and fast from the inky clouds.

But let us return to the fort, and see what followed Levi Armstrong’s discovery of the poisoning of the well.