face was blanched, but who spoke never a word as she put the muzzle of the hot
rifle into a bucket of water, cooled the barrel, wiped it dry and passed it

back to the man beside her.
Silas Zane had been wounded at the first fire. A glancing ball had struck him

on the head, inflicting a painful scalp wound. It was now being dressed by
Col. Zane's wife, whose skilled fingers were already tired with the washing

and the bandaging of the injuries received by the defenders. In all that
horrible din of battle, the shrill yells of the savages, the hoarse shouts of

the settlers, the boom of the cannonoverhead, the cracking of rifles and the
whistling of bullets; in all that din of appalling noise, and amid the

stifling smoke, the smell of burned powder, the sickening sight of the
desperately wounded and the already dead, the Colonel's brave wife had never

faltered. She was here and there; binding the wounds, helping Lydia and Betty
mould bullets, encouraging the men, and by her example, enabling those women

to whom border war was new to bear up under the awful strain.
Sullivan, who had been on top of the block-house, came down the ladder almost

without touching it. Blood was running down his bare arm and dripping from the
ends of his fingers.

"Zane, Martin has been shot," he said hoarsely. "The same Indian who shot away
these fingers did it. The bullets seem to come from some elevation. Send some

scout up there and find out where that damned Indian is hiding."
"Martin shot? God, his poor wife! Is he dead?" said Silas.

"Not yet. Bennet is bringing him down. Here, I want this hand tied up, so that
my gun won't be so slippery."

Wetzel was seen stalking from one porthole to another. His fearful yell
sounded above all the others. He seemed to bear a charmed life, for not a

bullet had so much as scratched him. Silas communicated to him what Sullivan
had said. The hunter mounted the ladder and went up on the roof. Soon he

reappeared, descended into the room and ran into the west end of the
block-house. He kneeled before a porthole through which he pushed the long

black barrel of his rifle. Silas and Sullivan followed him and looked in the
direction indicated by his weapon. It pointed toward the bushy top of a tall

poplar tree which stood on the hill west of the Fort. Presently a little cloud
of white smoke issued from the leafy branches, and it was no sooner seen than

Wetzel's rifle was discharged. There was a great motion" target="_blank" title="n.混乱；骚动">commotion among the leaves,
the branches swayed and thrashed, and then a dark body plunged downward to

strike on the rocky slope of the bluff and roll swiftly out of sight. The
hunter's unnatural yell pealed out.

"Great God! The man's crazy," cried Sullivan, staring at Wetzel's demon-like
face.

"No, no. It's his way," answered Silas.
At that moment the huge frame of Bennet filled up the opening in the roof and

started down the ladder. In one arm he carried the limp body of a young man.
When he reached the floor he laid the body down and beckoned to Mrs. Zane.

Those watching saw that the young man was Will Martin, and that he was still
alive. But it was evident that he had not long to live. His face had a leaden

hue and his eyes were bright and glassy. Alice, his wife, flung herself on her
knees beside him and tenderly raised the drooping head. No words could express

the agony in her face as she raised it to Mrs. Zane. In it was a mute appeal,
an unutterable prayer for hope. Mrs. Zane turned sorrowfully to her task.

There was no need of her skill here. Alfred Clarke, who had been ordered to
take Martin's place on top of the block-house, paused a moment in silent

sympathy. When he saw that little hole in the bared chest, from which the
blood welled up in an awful stream, he shuddered and passed on. Betty looked

up from her work and then turned away sick and faint. Her mute lips moved as
if in prayer.

Alice was left alone with her dying husband. She tenderly supported his head
on her bosom, leaned her face against his and kissed the cold, numb lips. She

murmured into his already deaf ear the old tender names. He knew her, for he
made a feeble effort to pass his arm round her neck. A smile illumined his

face. Then death claimed him. With wild, distended eyes and with hands pressed
tightly to her temples Alice rose slowly to her feet.

"Oh, God! Oh, God!" she cried.
Her prayer was answered. In a momentary lull in the battle was heard the

deadly hiss of a bullet as it sped through one of the portholes. It ended with
a slight sickening spat as the lead struck the flesh. Then Alice, without a

cry, fell on the husband's breast. Silas Zane found her lying dead with the
body of her husband clasped closely in her arms. He threw a blanket over them

and went on his wearying round of the bastions.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The besiegers had been greatly harassed and hampered by the continual fire
from Col. Zane's house. It was exceedingly difficult for the Indians, and

impossible for the British, to approach near enough to the Colonel's house to
get an effective shot. Col. Zane and his men had the advantage of being on

higher ground. Also they had four rifles to a man, and they used every spare
moment for reloading. Thus they were enabled to pour a deadly fire into the

ranks of the enemy, and to give the impression of being much stronger in force
than they really were.

About dusk the firing ceased and the Indians repaired to the river bluff.
Shortly afterward their camp-fires were extinguished and all became dark and

quiet. Two hours passed. Fortunately the clouds, which had at first obscured
the moon, cleared away somewhat and enough light was shed on the scene to

enable the watchers to discern objects near by.
Col. Zane had just called together his men for a conference. He suspected some

cunning deviltry on part of the Indians.
"Sam, take what stuff to eat you can lay your hands on and go up to the loft.

Keep a sharp lookout and report anything to Jonathan or me," said the Colonel.
All afternoon Jonathan Zane had loaded and fired his rifles in sullen and

dogged determination. He had burst one rifle and disabled another. The other
men were fine marksmen, but it was undoubtedly Jonathan's unerring aim that

made the house so unapproachable. He used an extremely heavy, large bore
rifle. In the hands of a man strong enough to stand its fiercerecoil it was a

veritable cannon. The Indians had soon learned to respect the range of that
rifle, and they gave the cabin a wide berth.

But now that darkness had enveloped the valley the advantage lay with the
savages. Col. Zane glanced apprehensively at the blackened face of his

brother.
"Do you think the Fort can hold out?" he asked in a husky voice. He was a bold

man, but he thought now of his wife and children.
"I don't know," answered Jonathan. "I saw that big Shawnee chief today. His

name is Fire. He is well named. He is a fiend. Girty has a picked band."
"The Fort has held out surprisingly well against such combined and fierce

attacks. The Indians are desperate. You can easily see that in the way in
which they almost threw their lives away. The green square is covered with

dead Indians."
"If help does not come in twenty-four hours not one man will escape alive.

Even Wetzel could not break through that line of Indians. But if we can hold
the Indians off a day longer they will get tired and discouraged. Girty will

not be able to hold them much longer. The British don't count. It's not their
kind of war. They can't shoot, and so far as I can see they haven't done much

damage."
"To your posts, men, and every man think of the women and children in the

block-house."
For a long time, which seemed hours to the waiting and watching settlers, not

a sound could be heard, nor any sign of the enemy seen. Thin clouds had again
drifted over the noon, allowing only a pale, wan light to shine down on the

valley. Time dragged on and the clouds grew thicker and denser until the moon
and the stars were totally obscured. Still no sign or sound of the savages.

"What was that?" suddenly whispered Col. Zane.
"It was a low whistle from Sam. We'd better go up," said Jonathan.

They went up the stairs to the second floor from which they ascended to the
loft by means of a ladder. The loft was as black as pitch. In that Egyptian

darkness it was no use to look for anything, so they crawled on their hands
and knees over the piles of hides and leather which lay on the floor When they

reached the small window they made out the form of the negro.
"What is it, Sam?" whispered Jonathan.

"Look, see thar, Massa Zane," came the answer in a hoarsewhisper from the
negro and at the same time he pointed down toward the ground.

Col. Zane put his head alongside Jonathan's and all three men peered out into
the darkness.

"Jack, can you see anything?" said Col. Zane.
"No, but wait a minute until the moon throws a light."

A breeze had sprung up. The clouds were passing rapidly over the moon, and at
long intervals a rift between the clouds let enough light through to brighten