His head rolled from Betty's knee; a quiver shook his frame; he struggled to

rise to his feet, but his strength was too far spent; he crawled close to
Betty's feet; his eyes looked up at her with almost human affection; then they

closed, and he lay still. Tige was dead.
"It is all over, Betty. Tige will romp no more. He will never be forgotten,

for he was faithful to the end. Jonathan, tell the Major of Wetzel's warning,
and both of you go back to your posts on the river. Silas, send Capt. Boggs to

me."
An hour after the death of Tige the settlers were waiting for the ring of the

meeting-house bell to summon them to the Fort.
Supper at Col. Zane's that night was not the occasion of good-humored jest and

pleasant conversation. Mrs. Zane's face wore a distressed and troubled look;
Betty was pale and quiet; even the Colonel was gloomy; and the children,

missing the usual cheerfulness of the evening meal, shrank close to their
mother.

Darkness slowly settled down; and with it came a feeling of relief, at least
for the night, for the Indians rarely attacked the settlements after dark.

Capt. Boggs came over and he and Col. Zane conversed in low tones.
"The first thing in the morning I want you to ride over to Short Creek for

reinforcements. I'll send the Major also and by a different route. I expect to
hear tonight from Wetzel. Twelve times has he crossed that threshold with the

information which made an Indian surprise impossible. And I feel sure he will
come again."

"What was that?" said Betty, who was sitting on the doorstep.
"Sh-h!" whispered Col. Zane, holding up his finger.

The night was warm and still. In the perfect quiet which followed the
Colonel's whispered exclamation the listeners heard the beating of their

hearts. Then from the river bank came the cry of an owl; low but clear it came
floating to their ears, its single melancholy note thrilling them. Faint and

far off in the direction of the island sounded the answer.
"I knew it. I told you. We shall know all presently," said Col. Zane. "The

first call was Jonathan's, and it was answered."
The moments dragged away. The children had fallen asleep on the bearskin rug.

Mrs. Zane and Betty had heard the Colonel's voice, and sat with white faces,
waiting, waiting for they knew not what.

A familiar, light-moccasined tread sounded on the path, a tall figure loomed
up from the darkness; it came up the path, passed up the steps, and crossed

the threshold.
"Wetzel!" exclaimed Col. Zane and Capt. Boggs. It was indeed the hunter. How

startling was his appearance! The buckskin hunting coat and leggins were wet,
torn and bespattered with mud; the water ran and dripped from him to form

little muddy pools on the floor; only his rifle and powder horn were dry. His
face was ghastly white except where a bullet wound appeared on his temple,

from which the blood had oozed down over his cheek. An unearthly light gleamed
from his eyes. In that moment Wetzel was an appalling sight.

"Col. Zane, I'd been here days before, but I run into some Shawnees, and they
gave me a hard chase. I have to report that Girty, with four hundred Injuns

and two hundred Britishers, are on the way to Ft. Henry."
"My God!" exclaimed Col. Zane. Strong man as he was the hunter's words had

unnerved him.
The loud and clear tone of the church-bell rang out on the still night air.

Only once it sounded, but it reverberated among the hills, and its single
deep-toned ring was like a knell. The listeners almost expected to hear it

followed by the fearful war-cry, that cry which betokened for many desolation
and deaths.

CHAPTER XIII.
Morning found the settlers, with the exception of Col. Zane, his brother

Jonathan, the negro Sam, and Martin Wetzel, all within the Fort. Col. Zane had
determined, long before, that in the event of another siege, he would use his

house as an outpost. Twice it had been destroyed by fire at the hands of the
Indians. Therefore, surrounding himself by these men, who were all expert

marksmen, Col. Zane resolved to protect his property and at the same time
render valuable aid to the Fort.

Early that morning a pirogue loaded with cannon balls, from Ft. Pitt and bound
for Louisville, had arrived and Captain Sullivan, with his crew of three men,

had demanded admittance. In the absence of Capt. Boggs and Major McColloch,
both of whom had been dispatched for reinforcements, Col. Zane had placed his

brother Silas in command of the Fort. Sullivan informed Silas that he and his
men had been fired on by Indians and that they sought the protection of the

Fort. The services of himself and men, which he volunteered, were gratefully
accepted.

All told, the little force in the block-house did not exceed forty-two, and
that counting the boys and the women who could handle rifles. The few

preparations had been completed and now the settlers were awaiting the
appearance of the enemy. Few words were spoken. The children were secured

where they would be out of the way of flying bullets. They were huddled
together silent and frightened; pale-faced but resolute women passed up and

down the length of the block-house; some carried buckets of water and baskets
of food; others were tearing bandages; grim-faced men peered from the

portholes; all were listening for the war-cry. They had not long to wait.
Before noon the well-known whoop came from the wooded shore of the river, and

it was soon by the appearance of hundreds of Indians. The river, which was
low, at once became a scene of great animation. From a placid, smoothly

flowing stream it was turned into a muddy, splashing, turbulenttorrent. The
mounted warriors urged their steeds down the bank and into the water; the

unmounted improvised rafts and placed their weapons and ammunition upon them;
then they swam and pushed, kicked and yelled their way across; other Indians

swam, holding the bridles of the pack-horses. A detachment of British soldiers
followed the Indians. In an hour the entire army appeared on the river bluff

not three hundred yards from the Fort. They were in no hurry to begin the
attack. Especially did the Indians seem to enjoy the lull before the storm,

and as they stalked to and fro in plain sight of the garrison, or stood in
groups watching the Fort, they were seen in all their hideous war-paint and

formidable battle-array. They were exultant. Their plumes and eagle feathers
waved proudly in the morning breeze. Now and then the long, peculiarly broken

yell of the Shawnees rang out clear and strong. The soldiers were drawn off to
one side and well out of range of the settlers' guns. Their red coats and

flashing bayonets were new to most of the little band of men in the
block-house.

"Ho, the Fort!"
It was a strong, authoritative voice and came from a man mounted on a black

horse.
"Well, Girty, what is it?" shouted Silas Zane.

"We demand unconditional surrender," was the answer.
"You will never get it," replied Silas.

"Take more time to think it over. You see we have a force here large enough to
take the Fort in an hour."

"That remains to be seen," shouted some one through porthole.
An hour passed. The soldiers and the Indians lounged around on the grass and

walked to and fro on the bluff. At intervals a taunting Indian yell, horrible
in its suggestiveness came floating on the air. When the hour was up three

mounted men rode out in advance of the waiting Indians. One was clad in
buckskin, another in the uniform of a British officer, and the third was an

Indian chief whose powerful form was naked except for his buckskin belt and
legging.

"Will you surrender?" came in the harsh and arrogant voice of the renegade.
"Never! Go back to your squaws!" yelled Sullivan.

"I am Capt. Pratt of the Queen's Rangers. If you surrender I will give you the
best protection King George affords," shouted the officer.

"To hell with lying George! Go back to your hair-buying Hamilton and tell him
the whole British army could not make us surrender," roared Hugh Bennet.

"If you do not give up, the Fort will be attacked and burned. Your men will be
massacred and your women given to the Indians," said Girty.

"You will never take a man, woman or child alive," yelled Silas. "We remember
Crawford, you white traitor, and we are not going to give up to be butchered.

Come on with your red-jackets and your red-devils. We are ready."
"We have captured and killed the messenger you sent out, and now all hope of

succor must he abandoned. Your doom is sealed."
"What kind of a man was he?" shouted Sullivan.

"A fine, active young fellow," answered the outlaw.
"That's a lie," snapped Sullivan, "he was an old, gray haired man."

As the officer and the outlaw chief turned, apparently to consult their
companion, a small puff of white smoke shot forth from one of the portholes of

the block-house. It was followed by the ringing report of a rifle. The Indian
chief clutched wildly at his breast, fell forward on his horse, and after