THE SOUTH WIND.
The project of placing a dummy on the roof of the block-house, with a
view of drawing the fire of the Wyandots, was original with Jo
Stinger. It is hard to see what good was attained, for more than
enough ammunition remained to prosecute the battle with all energy,
whenever the opportunity presented itself to the assailants.
The explanation of the act is found in the mental composition of the
frontiersman himself. He had been outwitted more than once by the
Indians, and he wished to show them that he had not lost entirely the
cunning which had made his name known among many of the tribes that
roamed and hunted through Ohio and the Dark and Bloody Ground.
Still further, those men who are accustomed to scenes of danger and
daring are not without a certain element of humor in their make-up,
and when one's spirits are oppressed for a long period, the rebound,
at times, is so sudden that he is impelled to words and acts so
incongruous as to excite the wonderment of friends.
Jo constructed the dummy to look as much like himself as possible. The
clothing and material for this could be ill spared, but he furnished
most of it himself, and when the image was placed in position, he was
as impatient as a child for the sport that followed.
Poor distressed Mrs. Preston could see no justification of such levity
at so serious a time. Megill and Turner enjoyed it scarcely less than
their friend, while the Colonel affected an interest which he was far
from feeling.
Blossom Brown laughed heartily over the discomfiture of the red men,
and Ned Preston forgot his dread and grief for the moment; but they
quickly returned, and the depression of all was doubtless greater from
the temporary lifting of spirits the incident caused.
The Wyandots had hardly discovered the deception, when all three of
the men at the loopholes fired into them. The shots produced results
too, and the assailants became more cautious of the Kentuckians, who
had learned to use their guns with such accuracy of aim.
Jo Stinger, in spreading the wetted blankets over the roof, had shown
not only skill and courage, but good judgment. The protection was
secured at the remotest points, which it was impossible to reach from
either of the trap-doors, without exposing themselves to the certain
aim of the Wyandot sharpshooters. The uncovered portions were those
within reach.
Jo Stinger and Colonel Preston passed to the southern side of the
building, from which they could look out upon the nearest cabin. Here
a number of Indians were gathered, as there had been almost from the
first.
"Your errand, I've no doubt, Jo, is the same as mine," said the
officer, in a guarded voice.
"There's no doubt of that," replied the scout, "always providin' yours
is the same as mine."
"I'm watching the wind."
"So am I."
"How do you find it?"
"It's blowing from the south."
"I am afraid so," remarked the Colonel, with a pang of misgiving, as
he received a puff through the loophole, directly in the face; "is it
stronger than before?"
"It's blowing harder than it did a half hour ago, but not so hard as
two hours since."
"The worst feature about the business is that the wind is not only
from the wrong point of the compass, but it is increasing."
"You speak the solemn truth, Colonel, but it aint sartin the varmints
have got us anyway--helloa!"
To the consternation of every one in the block-house the tread of feet
was heard on the roof at that moment. Some one ran nimbly along the
slabs, stooping down and holding himself from slipping by grasping the
ridge with his hands.
By what possible means he gained this perch, was beyond the conjecture
of any one; but the crisis was too grave to admit of an instant's
delay. The warrior, beyond a doubt, had assumed this perilous risk
with a view of tearing off the blankets, which shielded the roof from
the flaming arrows.
Jo Stinger dropped his gun, sprang upon a stool, and leaped upward
through the trap-door. Had he vaulted upon the roof with less
celerity, he would have been dispatched by the Indian, who would have
had him almost at his mercy; but the first warning the Wyandot
received of his coming was his arrival.
The scout was aroused, and no athlete could have handled himself more
deftly than did he. The very moment he was outside he moved several
feet away from the opening and placed himself astride of the ridge
pole.
This was the most secure position he could hold, and he peered around
in the darkness and listened for something that would tell him where
his enemy was. His unusually keen vision was of no use under the
circumstances. There was not the slightest ember burning near him, nor
was there a ray of moonlight or starlight to pierce the blackness of
night.
But the Wyandot was there. He had removed several of the blankets, and
was working at the others when the sound of the trap-door told him the
important truth that a second person was on the roof.
The warrior could have slid down to the eaves and dropped to the
ground without injury to himself; but that would have forced him to
leave his work uncompleted, and he was too true a brave to do that.
Nothing loth to engage in a personal encounter, he began stealing
along the ridge toward the point where he believed the white man was
awaiting him. As Stinger held himself rigid and motionless, his
precise location could not be determined at once; but the Indian's
approach, guarded though it was, told Jo exactly where to search for
his adversary.
Never was a barbarian taken more completely at fault. He made a fatal
miscalculation, and one minute later, when he fell to the ground, he
was as lifeless as the dummy which preceded him.
How this savage managed to reach the roof, puzzled Stinger beyond
expression. He sat bolt upright on the ridge, looking around in the
blank darkness, listening and thinking, and speculating upon the
all-absorbing problem.
"It must be they rigged up some sort of ladder by cutting down a
sapling; then they've leaned it aginst the eaves and he has shinned
up, almost rubbing agin the muzzles of our guns,--but he won't climb
any more ladders of _that_ kind I reckon."
There was reason to fear the attempt would be repeated, and the scout
retained his perch fully ten minutes, that he might be prepared to nip
such a scheme in the bud.
Nothing to cause alarm occurred. Jo proceeded to investigate as
carefully as he could the mischief done by the Wyandot who paid so
dearly for it.
To his dismay the scout soon learned that the Indian had almost
completed the task he undertook. He had torn off the frosty blankets
and sent them rolling and sliding to the ground, as though they were
so many ribbons fluttering in the wind.
Great damage in this respect had been done, and it was irreparable.
The scout had hitched along until close to the trap-door, where he
paused a moment listening, in the hope of learning something of the
movements of the Wyandots.
Loth as he was to admit it, he could not shut out the terrifying fact
that the wind, which had set in from the south, was still rising and
must soon reach a degree that would tempt the red men to fire the
cabin, with the almost certain prospect of the flames communicating to
the block-house.
Jo was contemplating this terrible contingency, when he heard several
signals between parties near at hand. He had no way of knowing their
meaning, but, while he was looking and listening, another burning
arrow suddenly shot up from the edge of the clearing, in its
curvilinear flight for the roof of the block-house.
"I wonder how near that is coming to _me_," muttered Jo, looking
upward at the comet-like missile; "it turns beautiful--now it seems to
halt like a swimmer looking for a spot where to dive--now it
turns--down she comes--she is going to land on the roof sure--she's
coming for me--_great guns_!"
Up went the trap-door, and down shot the scout like a seal who plunges
into the air-hole just in time to elude the spear of the Esquimaux.
The spot vacated by the hunter was struck the fraction of a second
after by the arrow, which would have played sad havoc with him, had he
been less alert in his movements.
The expectation of the garrison, now that the roof had been cleared of
the blankets, was that the Wyandots would repeat the bombardment of
burning missiles, with an absolute certainty of success.
Such, there is every reason to believe, would have been the case, but
for the favoring air which rendered any repetition of that species of
warfare unnecessary.
It had ceased snowing, and the wind from the south was blowing
strongly. Everything favored the method of attack which Stinger heard
the chieftain Waughtauk declare should be used against the settlers.
By common agreement and without a word, the entire party passed to the
southern side of the building and peered through the loopholes at the
cabin, in which it was known a number of their enemies were gathered.
"If they have fixed upon this plan of assault," said Colonel Preston
to Stinger, "why do they wait?"
"The varmints are good judges of weather, and they may be sartin the
wind will be stronger by and by."
"But it seems strong enough to bring the flames over to us, and----"
"_They've set fire to the cabin!_"
The exclamation came from Ned Preston, who was at the elbow of Jo
Stinger. Every one who was looking out in the darkness saw that he
spoke the appalling truth.
The building nearest them had a door and window on the first floor,
and two windows above, all facing the block-house. It was in the lower
story that Waughtauk and his most trusted warriors had been grouped
for hours, after having decided what should be the line of action
toward the besieged settlers.
From the window on the lower floor suddenly issued a tongue of flame,
which darted out and back with great rapidity. Then the whole interior
became one vivid red glow, fire was seen shooting in every direction,
and volumes of smoke began pouring from the upper windows.
The torch was applied, and the last, final test of the block-house had
come.
The garrison were awed spectators of the scene. All understood what it
meant, and there was no call for words; but as the southern side of
the block-house, as well as the roof, were to be exposed to a
furnace-like heat, the water was gathered in vessels, where it could
be used the instant needed.
The Wyandots had hurried out of the building before the flames were
fairly going, so as not to expose themselves to the rifles of the
Kentuckians; but as the flames spread and the circle of illumination
widened, the dusky foes were seen skulking behind the other cabin,
along the stockade, and in the clearing, watching the destruction, and
the massive block-house, whose heavy logs, steep overhanging roof,
rude chimney and rugged outlines loomed up in the crimson glow against
the background of blank darkness.
There was not a snowflake in the air, but the spotless white on the
ground showed in many places where the mantle had been disturbed by
the moccasins of the Wyandots.
The glare seemed to reach the clouds, and the myriads of sparks which
went drifting to the northward, and falling over an area of many
acres, brought out the gaunt, skeleton-like figures of the trees,
which seemed to look solemnly forth from the dim woods, where the
white and red men only met in scenes of violence and blood.
The garrison allowed themselves to be restrained by no sentimentality,
for it was an hour when every shot counted. The glow of the ascending
flames continually flung back the sheltering mantle of night
enveloping the figures of the warriors, who were not always quick to
remember the danger to which they were thus exposed.
But when four or five well-aimed rifles were fired from the loopholes,
that were lit up with an illumination greater than that of the noonday
sun, the survivors made haste to run back into the gloom, or to throw
themselves behind some shelter.
The situation of those in the block-house became distressing beyond
expression. The wind, blowing strongly in that direction, quickly
filled the room with suffocating smoke, which, for a minute or two,
threatened to overcome every one. The vapor, however, gave way to the
heat, which was uncomfortable, although, so long as the logs did not
take the flames, they could not cause much suffering.
The smoke and its miseries awoke little Mary and Susie Preston, whose
terror, when they saw through the loopholes the burning cabin, and
who were not too young to understand their peril, touched the hearts
of all. They began crying piteously and, trembling in every limb,
threw their arms first about the neck of mamma and then of papa,
sobbing and clinging convulsively to each in turn.
"The wicked Indians will kill you: we know they will; they will kill
papa and mamma, and that will break our hearts."
After a time, the mother was able to quiet them, and then both,
without any agreement, knelt at her knee and prayed with the pathetic
faith of childhood.
"Our Heavenly Father, don't let the bad Indians hurt papa nor mamma,
nor Jo, nor Mr. Turner, nor Mr. Megill, nor cousin Ned, nor Blossom,
nor us. Don't let them hurt anybody; take care of us all; make us good
girls. Amen."
Who shall say that the petition from the hearts of the innocent and
trusting little ones was not wafted upward by the wings of listening
angels, who were quick to bear the message to Him whose ear is never
closed? And who shall say that He, leaning over the celestial
battlements, did not look down on that wild scene in the grim
forests, and stay the hand of the vengeful Wyandot, as it was raised
to smite his pale-face brother to the earth?