The finger of Mr. Brainerd was pressing the trigger, and the hammer with
its cumbrous flint was on the very eve of descending, when he suddenly
released the pressure, and gave utterance to a peculiar half-chuckle.
Those who were gazing along the line of direction indicated by the
gleaming rifle-barrel, saw at the point where the Seneca was expected to
appear, something which looked very much like the forerunner of that
interesting person.
It was the top-knot and crown of an Indian, with several gaudy feathers
projecting slightly beyond the wall of rock, the appearance suggesting
that he was gathering himself for a spring.
This was the belief of the patriot, and, confident that at such a short
distance he could not miss, he was about to fire, when there came a
flash of suspicion that a sharp, but by no means original, trick was
being tried on him.
The action was not precisely that of a real Indian while trying to peer
around a dangerous point, and most probably was intended to draw the
fire of the sentinel.
As soon as the bullet should leave the ready rifle, the waiting warrior
would either leap or run the few intervening feet, and reach the
vantage-ground before the other two rifles in the company could be aimed
and fired.
"Why don't you shoot?" whispered Habakkuk, "you've got him dead sure."
"_That isn't an Indian_," was the response, "but there will be one in
sight pretty soon. All of you keep well back out of the way, where there
is no danger of being hit, and leave this fellow to me."
The situation of the settler was trying. Lying flat on his face, with
his gun cocked and pointed toward a certain spot, he watched with such
intensity that in the fading light his sight threatened to fail him.
Odd, flickering figures danced before him, and sometimes rock, wood, and
sky were so jumbled together, that he had to glance in another
direction, until he could recover his visual strength.
The wily Seneca, having failed to draw his shot, was now likely to
attempt some other stratagem.
Furthermore, the massacre of Wyoming was still going on, and this
formidable body had not the patience to shut themselves out from their
share in it.
In one sense it was tying themselves up to remain for hours, besieging a
little company of fugitives, and, therefore, they were likely to display
less indifference to the passage of time than is the rule with their
race.
Such was the conclusion of Mr. Brainerd, and we may as well say he was
correct.
All at once the figure of an Indian warrior was seen against the sky,
and the next instant he made a leap like a panther, his fine athletic
form with his legs and arms gathered being seen for an instant
apparently poised in mid-air, as he made his swift bound for the point
behind the column of rocks, which, once secured, placed the life of
every one of the patriots at his mercy.
But, while the lithe Seneca hung thus, for one moment, between heaven
and earth, he emitted a screech, his limbs were thrown out convulsively,
and, striking the point at which he aimed, he rebounded like a ball, and
went tumbling to the bottom.
Mr. Brainerd had fired at the very crisis, and his aim was unerring.
"Let me have your gun," said he, reaching for the weapon in the hand of
McEwen, while he kept watch of the point where the Seneca had appeared
and disappeared with such suddenness.
The New Englander passed the rifle to the settler, saying:
"It won't fail you."
"Please reload mine."
Habakkuk did as requested, and they exchanged weapons again.
The supposition of Mr. Brainerd was, that the shot he had fired would
keep the Indians at bay for a considerable while, though he knew better
than to trust to any such probability.
The gun that had served him so well was in his grasp again, and a
feeling of self-confidence came with it.
Much less time had passed since the disaster to the patriots on the
other side the Susquehanna than would be supposed; but, while the
settler lay stretched out on the rock, watching for the second Indian,
he became aware that he was watching by the aid of moonlight and
starlight alone.
It was all the harder to keep close guard, but it was indispensable, and
he doubted not that when he pulled trigger a second time another Seneca
would take a header down the ravine.
Some fifteen minutes passed, when Mr. Brainerd either saw, or fancied he
saw, a precisely similar fluttering movement as preceded the leap of him
who fell a victim to his marksmanship.
He held his gun pointed, the hammer raised, and his finger on the
trigger, ready to fire the second it should become necessary.
He was not kept waiting; sooner than he anticipated, the crouching
figure shot out into the air, as if propelled from a catapult, and,
with the same remarkable aim, the patriot pulled the trigger at the
moment the warrior was at the arch of the brief parabola.
But, to his consternation, the powder flashed in the pan, and no
discharge followed the dull click of the flint.