CHAPTER VIII.

A BIT OF MUTINY.

Fort Strong could not have successfully resisted an assault of the allies on the stockade. The settlers knew this; but were determined that the foe should be met with courage as fierce as his own, and that he should find none but dead bodies when he entered the fort.

Already the women were arming themselves and their words of encouragement threw more strength into their husbands’ arms.

We left Wolf-Cap and the two Indian chiefs hurrying toward the fort, and have also witnessed the former’s appearance among the besieged. Before entering, he had tarried a while without for the purpose of watching the enemy. His great heart leaped for joy when the rain began to descend, and beside the gate, he dismissed the chiefs with low words, intended for their ears alone.

He heard the foe approach, and learned that they bore ladders which, no doubt, they had constructed beyond the hill during the day, and then he hastened to prepare the settlers for the new danger.

But the sky grew lighter, and the assault came not. From some cause which the besieged could not fathom, the proposed attack had been suddenly abandoned, and when the light rendered objects distinguishable from the fort, not an enemy could be seen.

The dun storm clouds rolled heavily toward the south, and by-and-by the sun’s rays fell upon the charred roof of Fort Strong.

But let us follow the fortunes of Huldah Armstrong, and learn why the assault was abandoned—abandoned when the most unlearned warrior could foresee the result of a grand attack with the ladders.

To all appearances, the Indians had been withdrawn from the river; but such was not the case. The light of the burning roof revealed the ground between fort and stream, but not a brave lay behind the stumps. Colonel O’Neill attacked the fort from the hill only, thinking that the garrison might be driven to an attempt to fly to the river and escape by boats. Therefore, he had drawn the Indians to the tall grass on the bank, and during the entire fight not a shot was fired from the ambush.

But the colonel’s plans did not succeed.

“Why this delay?” exclaimed the officer, angrily, looking and listening from the summit of the hill where he stood, surrounded by half a dozen Indians and as many English officers. “The assault should have been made ere this.”

“We have not heard Funk’s signal yet, colonel,” answered one of the officers, suggestively.

“Fire and fury! he should have given it five minutes since,” and O’Neill looked at a beautiful chronometer which he drew from his bosom. “The truth of the matter is, Funk is crazy after a girl in the fort, and if he can get her, he will let the foe beat us off. Curse the laggard!”

A minute’s silence followed the Briton’s last words. The signal, whatever it was to have been, did not cleave the cool night air—not a sound came from the fort.

“The jig is up,” hoarsely hissed O’Neill, stamping his foot with rage. “Funk’s infernal passion for that girl has ruined our plans. Splitlog, is he a specimen of the men you associate with? Go and recall the forces! The day is breaking now, and if our men are not instantly withdrawn, they will be slaughtered like sheep.”

The Wyandot sachem left the hill, and presently every besieger relinquished the designed attack.

Colonel O’Neill was livid with rage, and threatened to withdraw his troops.

“Frank is the cause of all this,” he thundered to Splitlog. “You should take the villain out and shoot him when he shows his face in camp. But he’ll never have the audacity to show his face here. Perhaps he succeeded in getting the girl, and has fled to parts unknown. The fort would have been ours after a brief struggle. The deserter declares that Strong has six men on whom he can depend. So, chief, you see what we have missed by one man’s absorbing passion.”

“Night-Hawk do bad work, sure,” said Splitlog, like the colonel, in no good humor. “He better not come back to braves.”

“Killing him won’t mend matters; but—”

The interruption that broke the sentence was caused by the sudden appearance of a young Wyandot warrior, who informed the twain that Royal Funk and his Night-Hawks were boldly approaching.

O’Neill and the chief exchanged looks of surprise.

“That man possesses the audacity of the devil,” said the colonel. “Now stick to your word, Splitlog; pay him up. Do not listen to his excuses. If you do, he’ll conquer.”

White and red occupied the tent of the former, and when they stepped out, they beheld a large body of soldiers and savages approaching.

At the head of the array walked Roy Funk and his remaining Night-Hawks, six in number, for Sam Cole had slain his white adversary at the tree to which Wolf-Cap was bound at the opening of the fort fight, and the second Night-Hawk whom Silver Hand threw into the river on the same occasion, would march no more to deeds of brigandage.

There was a cloud on the outlaw’s face as he neared the little group; but he walked boldly erect, unmindful of the fierce looks and muttered epithets that the Indians hurled upon him.

At length he halted before the couple at the tent, and looked them calmly in the eye without a word.

“You have come to report,” said O’Neill, suddenly and sarcastically.

“With your permission, sir,” retorted the Night-Hawk captain.

“If you wish, you may tell the story of your treachery. Though I would rather not hear it, I will listen. You know the disaster you have hurled upon this army.”

“I am, to some extent, perhaps, to blame for the non-attack on the stockade. I am willing to take all the blame on my shoulders at any rate. They are strong,” and he shrugged them, “and can carry heavy loads.”

“But let the Night-Hawk talk of his dog acts,” cried Splitlog, stepping nearer Funk, furious almost beyond control.

“I was about ready to give my signal when we beheld a suspicious figure creeping from the fort to the river. We followed, and captured a man—Matt Hunter by name. He was a deserter and told us much. Captain Strong is a prisoner in the fort. His designs have been discovered. Wolf-Cap is in the fort.”

“I thought you held him captive?” said O’Neill, at this juncture.

“I did, but Cole wanted to trust his honesty, and Duke White here interfered. They fought and Cole got the best of Duke; but, after all, Wolf-Cap escaped.”

“But what about the man you caught?”

“The boys gave him to the Wyandots by the river. He’s yonder now with Sawyer, the other deserter. He was carrying a woman from the fort.”

“Stealing a woman, eh? Go on, Roy Funk, this is a romantic story you’re telling. Took some hard thinking no doubt.”

An illy-concealed sneer pervaded the officer’s words; but the outlaw chief did not appear to notice it.

“We got the girl of course, and,” looking at O’Neill, “she’s my girl, colonel—Huldah Armstrong.”

“This will all do to tell, Roy Funk,” said the soldier; “but it won’t slip down. You don’t understand greasing lies. That is an art which you should have mastered.”

“You’ll believe me if I produce the deserter and girl?” flashed Funk.

“I will, and not until then will I credit a single word you have uttered.”

The outlaw turned quickly upon one of his men.

“Jackson, go and bring Hunter and the girl here,” he said, in maddened tones, and the look which he then darted at his other Night-Hawks drew them nearer his imperiled form.

“You shall see that I haven’t lied!” he said, turning to O’Neill again. “Splitlog has enjoyed a long acquaintance with me, and he can not put his finger on a single lie of mine.”

“But what say you in extenuation of your crime of disobeying orders?”

“Circumstances, sir, interposed to check my career, and when I had disposed of my captives, you were withdrawing your troops. But, Colonel O’Neill, I want you to understand that I am a free man here. Roy Funk and his fellows do as they please; but for this time I have condescended to be a subordinate. You, sir, are the minority here. Splitlog by superiority of numbers commands.”

O’Neill bit his lip and referred the outlaw to the Wyandot for punishment. He felt that Splitlog would rid himself of Funk’s presence, and now he devoutly wished the forest freebooter out of his way.

A brief time elapsed between Jackson’s disappearance and his return.

A line of knolls or hills encircled the southern side of the fort, and terminated at the river. They enabled the outlaw to perform his errand without being seen by the besieged settlers, and he approached the assemblage with Huldah Armstrong and the treacherous borderman.

“There!” said Funk, in triumph, looking at his prisoners. “Colonel O’Neill, have I lied?”

The British soldier did not reply, for he was looking at the settler’s daughter, whose wonderful backwoods beauty was entrancing his Highland-tainted heart.

“What does Night-Hawk want to do with white girl?” asked Splitlog, breaking the silence that followed Funk’s speech.

“I intend making her Mrs. Funk, as I have told the colonel,” said the outlaw, quickly, glancing at the officer as he spoke. “She is mine!”

“But Night-Hawk didn’t give signal. He let a squaw run off with his head.”

Splitlog’s anger was rising again, and O’Neill was secretly rejoicing.

“I know it, chief; but to-night we’ll work together.”

“Like we did when it was dark before,” hissed the Wyandot, and his right arm started back threateningly. “The Night-Hawk is a traitor, and traitors are dogs. He no man at all who’ll let blue eyes draw him from duty.”

“Well, what is Splitlog going to do about it?”

The question was put calmly, but there was the lurking of a defiant, devil-may-care spirit in the words.

“He going to make example, as the pale-faces say,” was the reply. “Little Hickory, take the girl—”

“No you won’t!” interrupted the outlaw, and before the chief addressed could advance a step, Jackson threw Huldah Armstrong forward and Funk caught her in his arms.

“I appeal to the braves of the Wyandot nation, and to true English soldiers,” he cried, springing upon a fallen tree and looking around over the crowd. “I have fought for the flag of St. George and for the wampum of the Wyandots. I failed in a duty last night, but to-night we can take the fort. Put yourselves in my place last night. For such a pretty woman as this, who would not have forgotten every thing save love?”

Numerous cheers greeted the outlaw’s speech, but Splitlog, with a cloud on his face, advanced toward the log.

“Stop, chief,” cried Funk, cocking one of his pistols, and looking down upon the Wyandot. “I don’t want to shed blood on this occasion. My men will stand by me—if we go down, ’twill be as the fall of one man.”

Stern determination was written on the Night-Hawk’s face, and he glanced at Huldah, hanging half-senseless across his left arm.

“Don’t give in to him!” whispered O’Neill to Splitlog, who had stopped. “Make an example of the dog!”

The chief was inclined to do so.

“A vote! a vote!” cried the soldiers.

“We’ll have no votes on this question!” thundered Colonel O’Neill.

“We will!” answered a stalwart corporal, stepping forward, pistol in hand. “Colonel O’Neill, your men say that Funk’s fate shall not be settled by one man.”

“Fire and furies, this is mutiny!” and the English sword leaped from its scabbard. “Corporal, who commands the Ninety-first—you or I?”

Corporal Quitman did not reply, but saluted his superior and stepped aside.

“We will vote on Funk’s life!” came a cry from the rebellious quarter, and the Indians began to demand a ballot, in their own language.

Colonel O’Neill was shaking with rage.

“Colonel, you had best listen to the men!” ventured Quitman, again.

“Who gave you authority to suggest to me?” roared the epauleted Briton, starting toward the corporal. “Sergeant Wilkinson, arrest the mutineer.”

But the sergeant did not stir.

“What! dare you disobey, too?”

“I dare!” was the quiet response. “Colonel, if a majority of the Wyandots and the old Ninety-first say that Funk’s deed deserves death, we will submit. But one man, and he an _Indian_, shall not dictate in such a case as this.”

The mutineers applauded the sergeant’s words, and Colonel O’Neill stepped back, and gazed with horror into Splitlog’s face.

“I know what you want, colonel,” said Roy Funk, at this juncture, “and I don’t blame you, either, for you don’t pick up such a girl as this in the woods every day. Let the red-coats vote, and the Indians, too. If they say I deserve death, you may kill me.”

O’Neill looked up at the outlaw, and then turned to the sachem.

“I leave it to you, Splitlog,” he said. “Count me out; but Funk should live if he can cower such a man as you!”