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Had the encounter between young Preston and the sinewy Wyandot been permitted to go on, there could have been but one result; but Deerfoot, who was holding his breath, with his eyes riveted on the combatants, now drew his arrow to its head and aimed at the assailing warrior.

Although the distance between him and his target was no more than half way across the clearing, yet the feat was immeasurably more difficult than that of sending the letter through the narrow window; for, unfortunately, Ned Preston and the Wyandot were standing so nearly in a line that the young Shawanoe could only see the head and shoulders of the powerful savage a few feet beyond.

Beside this, the two were likely to change their respective positions any instant: they might do so indeed after the launching of the arrow, which would not only miss the red man at whom it was pointed, but was liable to strike the boy himself.

Even Deerfoot doubted his own success and he therefore aimed with the greater care and caution, slowly drawing back the shaft, and with nerves like iron, looked steadily along the reed and at the tableau far beyond.

But before the fingers let go the string, the necessity for doing so vanished. The incidents which we have undertaken to describe, passed with such swiftness that it would have been hard for a spectator to follow each phase, few as they were; but it need not be said that every man within the block-house was watching the extraordinary scene on the clearing with an interest as intense, as absorbing and breathless, as that of Deerfoot himself.

Colonel Preston was standing by the door, with one hand on the cumbersome latch, ready to draw it inward the instant the boys reached the proper point; while Jo Stinger, Jim Turner and Sam Megill held their rifles ready to use, the very second it should become necessary.

There was such bewildering rapidity in the events narrated, that the spectators within the block-house did not comprehend the extreme peril of young Preston, until they saw the Wyandot advancing on him with his drawn knife.

"Boys," said Jo Stinger, "it's the opinion of the undersigned that this is a good time of day to fire off a gun."

"Quick!" called out Colonel Preston from below, as he peeped through the door; "shoot that Indian!"

"That's just what is contemplated," replied Stinger, whose rifle was already thrust through a loophole, while he was looking along the gleaming barrel.

But, to the consternation of the veteran, the moment he drew bead on the warrior, he discovered he stood in such exact line with young Preston that it was impossible to shoot the red man without the absolute certainty of striking the lad directly beyond.

"I've got to wait," called out Jo, by way of explaining his inaction, "until they shift their positions."

Had the vengeful Wyandot comprehended the vast advantage he gained by holding the youth directly in front, he would have continued to do so; but it was almost impossible that he should have been subtle enough to make such a discovery.

Meanwhile, Ned Preston, daring, resolute and defiant, grasped the barrel of his rifle, and with one foot thrown forward, and with the stock of his gun flung back in the position, and with the pose of a skilled batsman awaiting the pitching of a ball, braced himself for the assault.

The Indian, powerful, active and alert, bent his knees and back slightly, like a panther gathering for a leap, and glared in the face of the youthful David, who so calmly confronted the fierce Goliath.

It was a trying position for the boy, who looked dauntlessly into the hideous countenance daubed with ochre and paint. It was probably the truth that the Wyandot was testing the power of his eye, as the rattle-snake does with the bird. If such were the case, the result could not have been gratifying to the warrior.

All at once, without removing his eyes from those of Ned, the Indian deftly extended his left foot slightly forward and a brief distance to one side. Then he gradually shifted the weight of his body over upon it, until he had transferred himself nearly a foot out of alignment.

Deerfoot the Shawanoe instantly detected this, and pointed his arrow with full confidence; Jo Stinger was equally on the alert, and his keen gray eye glanced along the barrel with more certainty; but, not unnaturally perhaps, the two marksmen, from opposite standpoints, understood the peculiar maneuvering which the Wyandot had begun: he intended to circle slowly around the boy, who stood on the defensive, watching for an opening, which he would seize with the quickness of lightning.

If such should prove the fact, the spectators had but a short while to wait: and such did prove to be the fact.

Once more the Wyandot moved his left foot, almost as far as the limb permitted, and held it motionless, with the toe resting on the ground. All the time his black eyes were fixed with burning intensity on the youth, and his right hand grasped the haft of the knife, as though he would crush it to nothingness.

Ned Preston suspected the purpose of his assailant and he instantly turned, so as to face him, who had not such an easy task as might have been supposed.

For a full minute, the left leg of the Wyandot remained extended, with nothing but the toe of the foot daintily touching, as though he meant to draw a line upon the earth with it. Then his weight gracefully glided over upon the limb, the gleaming eyes never once shifting from the pale face of the boy pioneer.

Scarcely was this movement – slight as it was – completed, when the oppressive stillness was broken by the explosive report of a rifle, a blue puff of smoke curled upward from one of the loopholes of the block-house, and those who were looking at the Wyandot, saw him suddenly throw his hands above his head, walk rapidly and uncertainly backward several steps, and then, with a faint cry, fall, with limbs outstretched, stone-dead.

The second warrior became so absorbed in the scene that he fixed his gaze on the two, paying no heed to the African, who, he must have believed, was at his mercy, when he chose to give his attention to him.

With a shrewdness hardly to be expected, the servant was quick to see that another's extremity was his opportunity.

"Nobody aint tinkin' 'bout Wildblossom Brown jes' now," was the belief of the lad, "which shows dat it am a good time to tink 'bout hisself."

He immediately began what may be called a flank movement around the three parties, who took no notice of him, although Deerfoot and the onlookers in the block-house observed the prudent action of the lad. They were greatly relieved, inasmuch as he could not offer the slightest help by staying behind.

Thus it came to pass that, at the moment the rifle was fired from the block-house, Blossom was well on his way toward it, and his subsequent action was like that of a runner who awaited the report as a signal. At the very instant it broke the stillness, he made a burst of speed and ran with might and main straight for shelter. The start that his own foresight had secured, placed him so far in advance of his enemies that his safety was virtually obtained.

"Open dat door!" he shouted in a voice that must have been heard a half mile away; "open her wide, or I'll smash her in!"

He plunged across the clearing like a steam-engine, and the door was drawn inward, while he was twenty paces distant, so that everything was in his favor.

Without checking himself in the least he "took a header" through the entrance and went clean across the lower floor and against the opposite side of the room, with a force that shook the entire building.

"My gracious, Blossom, it was a narrow escape!" exclaimed the Colonel, alluding to the flight of the lad from the warrior who had marked him for his own.

"Yes," said Blossom; "I like to have knocked my brains out agin de oder side de ole fort."

"I'm more afraid the block-house has been injured than I am that you have suffered; but you are safe now, and I can only hope that Ned may be equally fortunate."

The address and courage displayed by the surviving Wyandot aroused the admiration of the garrison, for it far surpassed their expectation.

The very instant the first red man was struck, and while he was staggering backwards, Ned Preston started with might and main for the sheltering block-house: he was thus quick to adopt the only course that offered safety, for the other warrior still held his knife and tomahawk at command, and was more alert, cunning and brave than the one that had fallen.

Young Preston's promptness gained him considerable start, but he was no more than fairly under way, when the other made for him with the speed of a deer. Ned was fleet for his years, but he was no match for the pursuing warrior, who gained rapidly.

The amazing daring of this pursuit can scarcely be explained: the Wyandot was straining every nerve to overtake the fugitive, who was striving with equal desperation to reach the block-house before him. The red man held his formidable tomahawk in his right hand, and was running straight toward the building from which the shot was fired, and from which he must have known others were certain to come. It was precisely as if a single soldier should deliberately charge upon a masked battery, of whose precise location he was well aware.

As may be supposed, the Wyandot had not run half the intervening distance, when another blue puff, floating aside from the loophole, accompanied the report of a rifle. Jim Turner had fired at the approaching Wyandot, but he did it so hastily that he missed him altogether.

"Is there no way of stopping him?" muttered Sam Megill, hurriedly bringing his gun to bear and discharging it; but, astonishing as it may seem, he missed also.

Jo Stinger was hastily reloading his piece, determined that the daring red man should not escape him, when Ned Preston dashed through the door and was safe.

As the Colonel quickly shut and fastened the entrance, a heavy thud was heard. The Wyandot had hurled his tomahawk with such prodigious force at the vanishing fugitive that the blade was buried half way to its head, and the handle projecting outward, would have required a power like that of King Arthur to draw it forth.

CHAPTER IX
WITHIN THE BLOCK-HOUSE

Having hurled his tomahawk with such venomous force at the vanishing fugitive, the baffled Wyandot, for the first time, seemed to think of his own safety.

The momentum of his furious pursuit carried him almost against the door of the block-house and directly beneath the overhanging floor, built so as to allow the defenders to fire down on the heads of their assailants. The rapid shifting of position served to confuse the garrison to a certain extent, but the action of the Indian was incomprehensible.

Making a sharp turn to the left, he ran with astonishing swiftness along the front of the building and stockade, until he was half way to the north-western angle, around which he had only to dart to be beyond reach of any bullet; but he seemed to think all at once that he had made a mistake. He stopped like a flash, turned with inconceivable quickness, and sped directly over the ground he had traversed, passing in front of the stockade and the block-house, his evident purpose being to reach the deserted cabin from which he had emerged in the first place.

As he was running with tremendous speed in front of the building, another gun was discharged at him, but he showed no sign of being harmed, and, without a second's hesitation, made for the cabin, where a brother brave awaited him.

"I consider that that 'ere beats all creation!" exclaimed Jo Stinger, aggravated over the repeated escapes of the daring redskin; "all I want is a chance to get a pop at him."

There was little time to spare, for the movements of the Wyandot proved him to be no ordinary athlete, and he was going for the open window of the cabin, like the wind.

Jo Stinger, by the utmost haste, beat him in the novel contest, and, thrusting his gun hastily through the loophole, aimed and fired with unusual nervousness.

"I struck him!" he exclaimed in great glee, as the warrior sprang in air, as if shot upward by a catapult.

"You haven't harmed a hair of his head!" laughed Jim Turner, who was peering through one of the loopholes; "it wasn't your bullet that made him jump."

"You're right," muttered the chagrined scout; "if I had another gun, I would break this one to pieces."

"It wasn't the fault of your rifle," was the truthful remark of his companion.

At the very moment Jo Stinger took his hasty aim and fired his gun, the fleeing Wyandot was so near the cabin that he bounded upward from the ground and went through the door, as the performer in the circus bounds through the hoop covered with paper.

The bullet which so rarely missed its mark did so in this instance by a hair's-breadth; but under such circumstances, a miss was as good as a mile, and the courageous Wyandot plunged through the entrance without a scratch, or so much as the "smell of fire" about his garments.

He had played a most desperate game and won so brilliantly that the veteran Jo Stinger, while exasperated over his own failure, felt like cheering the exploit.

The safety of the brave seemed to be the signal for a general fire along the lines. The Wyandots began discharging their rifles from the wood beyond the stockade, north, east and south, while Deerfoot was somewhat alarmed to hear several shots from the river bank where he was crouching, and at no great distance from him.

A number crept up to the rear of the nearest cabin, into which they entered without much danger to themselves, and from the windows of which they discharged their pieces at the block-house. This seemed a useless expenditure of ammunition, but there was a chance or two of doing something. Some of the bullets sent from the woods and cabins might enter a loophole: a number did pass through the narrow windows and were buried in the heavy logs beyond.

Unless the inmates were specially careful, one or more of these invisible messengers would strike them, and it was this hope which led the assailants to keep up the desultory firing for more than an hour succeeding the remarkable incidents on the clearing.

The garrison did not throw away their ammunition: they kept a sharp lookout for signs of their enemies, and, when there was a chance of doing execution, they were quick to take advantage of it, but there was no shooting at random, as is too often the case, under similar circumstances.

While these dropping shots were heard from many different points, the figure of the fallen Wyandot was stretched on the clearing in front of the block-house. It lay flat on its back, with the swarthy face turned upward, still and motionless, and an impressive evidence of the frightful and inexcusable enmity of the members of the same human family toward each other.

No one ventured to approach it, although the American Indian leaves no effort untried to remove his dead from the battle-ground. They would have gone forward on the present occasion to withdraw the remains, but they could not expect immunity from the rifles of the Kentuckians.

Under such circumstances, the dead warrior must wait until the darkness of the night, which is the chosen season of his race for carrying out his designs against all enemies.

Jo Stinger, who had followed the trail and lived in the woods for many years, was intensely mortified over his failure, and carefully reloading his gun, resolved that the blunder on his part should be retrieved.

He cautioned the new arrivals, and especially the children of Mrs. Preston, to keep away from the loopholes, through which the leaden missiles were likely to come any moment, on their mission of death. The good mother was too sensible of the peril to which they were all exposed, to allow her children to run any risk that could be avoided: there were places both above and below stairs, where no bullet could penetrate, and she made certain that her children never wandered beyond these somewhat narrow limits.

As soon as the door was securely fastened behind the entrance of Blossom Brown and Ned Preston, the Colonel, who, of course, was on the lower floor, grasped each in turn by the hand and congratulated them most warmly. Mrs. Preston, as soon as it was safe, descended the ladder and joined in the expressions of thankfulness.

Both the boys were panting from their tremendous exertions, and they sat down each on a chair until they could recover breath. As Ned drew forth the letters from his inner pocket and handed them to the Colonel, he said —

"It was the hardest struggle of my life; I never want to go through such another."

"Are you hurt in any way?" asked his aunt, laying her hand on the head of her nephew, who had taken off his cap and was drawing his handkerchief across his forehead.

"Not in the least, and I thank heaven, for, when that Wyandot let drive his tomahawk, it came like a cannon-ball, and if it hadn't struck my rifle-barrel as it did, it would have ended my days. I wonder whether it hurt the gun," suddenly added Ned, with that rapid transition from one subject to another which is characteristic of boyhood.

He examined the weapon, but although the brown barrel was pretty well scraped, it showed no real injury, and, in accordance with the teachings of his father, Ned now proceeded to reload the piece, while the dull reports of the guns, overhead and along the edge of the woods and the bank of the river, were heard.

By this time, Blossom Brown had recovered his breath, and he imitated the example of his young master. When he had completed his task, he regained a great deal of his assurance.

"Tings was sort ob lively for a while," he remarked in his offhand manner, as though there was nothing remarkable in their escape, "but I knowed we was comin' out all right."

"How could you know that," asked the surprised Mrs. Preston, "when we could not be certain, until you were both within the house?"

"I seed from de way dat Injine drawed back his tomahawk and squinted his eye, dat he wasn't goin' to shoot straight, and I knowed too dat de tomahawk was gwine to glance along de barrel jes' as it did, which am why I moved off to one side so dat it wouldn't tech me."

"That won't do," said Ned, with a shake of the head; "you knew just as much as I did, which was nothing at all."

"P'raps I did and p'raps I didn't," said Blossom in his loftiest manner, throwing his head back; "I neber brag ob what I'm doin', but I show from de way I act dat I knows what's what. I seed dat tings was gettin' mixed, and so I started for de house to impress de Colonel how it was and to git him to manage tings right."

At this moment, Mary and Susie Preston hurried down the ladder to greet their cousin.

"O Ned!" they shouted together, as they came near tumbling through the rounds; "we're so glad to see you!"

And the words were scarcely out of their mouths, when Susie, the younger, leaped from the middle round straight into the arms of Ned, which were outspread to receive her. Mary embraced the waist of the sturdy lad and insisted on attention. So Ned, after kissing the younger several times, set her down on the floor and did the same with the elder. Then he resumed his chair, and, holding them on his knees, laughed and talked as though he had passed through no such fearful scene as we have described, and as though no peril was yet impending over their heads.

"I knew the wicked Indians wouldn't hurt you," said little Susie, turning her pretty face up to that of her cousin.

"And how could you know that, little one?"

"'Cause Mary and I prayed to God, when we saw you coming across the clearing, to take care of you."

"Well, I prayed hard too," said Ned, "and then did the best I knew how, and I think God always takes care of those who do that: it isn't any use of praying unless you try to help yourselves."

This was orthodox, though the sentiment was not very original, and the little sisters subscribed to it as fully as though they had been taught it at their mother's knee.

Colonel Preston had delivered the letters to the parties to whom they belonged, and had read his own. He had looked out for the opportunity to use his gun, but saw none, and he now turned about and gave his whole attention to his "recruits."

"Where is Deerfoot?" was his first natural question.

"He was on the edge of the clearing, when we left, and I suppose he is there yet, unless the Wyandots have driven him out."

"It isn't likely he has been allowed to stay there long, for I notice that some of the shots come from that direction. How was it he befriended you as he did?"

"He is a great friend of mine, you know, Uncle."

"That isn't what I mean; how was it he brought you here and helped you to enter the block-house?"

In a few words, Ned Preston told the story which is already known to the reader. Before it was finished, the Colonel saw plainly the purpose of the Shawanoe youth.

"He believed there was instant necessity for me to have more guns at command, and that was why he used such great exertion to run you in."

"Do you think he did right, Uncle?"

"I must say I cannot see the necessity of his taking such terrible risks, when your help, although very welcome, was not so all important that our lives depended on it. Inasmuch as all of you were safely on the outside, where Jo Stinger tried so hard to get, it would have been the wiser plan, in my opinion, for you to have made all haste to Wild Oaks: the distance is not so great that you could not have brought help to us within two or three days."

"That is just the way I put the case to Deerfoot; but he insisted that the first thing to be done was to place us inside the block-house, and nothing could change his view. He knows so much more about such things than we, that I could not refuse to do as he wished."

"He may have had reasons which he has not made known, for he is an extraordinary Indian, although still a boy."

"That arrow which came through the window was a surprise, was it not?"

"A very great one: no one had any thought that it was anything other than a hostile one. I supposed it was intended to set fire to the building."

"Did you see it coming?"

"None of us saw it; but the thud it made, when it struck, told us its nature, and I went down to find out whether it was likely to do any damage. The moment my eyes rested on it, I noticed the paper tied around the shaft: that told the story, of course, and soon every one within knew the message. Well, you were not long in getting the signal you asked for, and you know the rest. That was a wonderful shot of the young Shawanoe."

"And would you believe, Uncle, that he told me after making it, that, if he had missed sending the arrow through the window, it would have been the death of all three of us."

"In what way?"

"The Wyandots would have found it and would have been quick to learn what it meant: then, as he said, we were in such a position that we could not get away from them."

"I have no doubt he spoke the truth, which shows what a fearful risk he ran; but he must have had great confidence in his ability to use his bow."

"And he has good reason for his confidence, as he has proven more than once; but, in spite of all his skill, I cannot help feeling that he has put himself in a trap from which he cannot free himself. Because the Wyandots have surrounded the block-house, and because some of them are always watching it, they must have seen the flight of the shaft through the air."

"If they did, they could not have known its errand."

"No, but they would recall that none of them use the bow except to shoot burning arrows, and they would be apt to suspect something was wrong."

"They often use such things to set fire to buildings."

"But this was not one, as they could have seen with but a single glance; and, had it been, they would have known all about it, if it was discharged by one of their own party."

"Ned," said Colonel Preston, "I have been talking against my own convictions, just to see what you thought about it: I agree with you. Subtle as the Shawanoe is, beyond any of his years, he has done a thing for which I cannot see the reason, and I believe he has placed himself in peril that admits of no escape. If such proves to be the case, he has also deprived himself of the opportunity to do us the great service we need."

"'Scuse me," interrupted Blossom Brown, who had been showing uneasiness for several minutes, and who was now snuffing the air in a suggestive way; "I tinks I smell corn bread, and I haben't dined dis mornin' yet."