“Injuns on the move, Kenton,” said Boone in low tones and without a trace of excitement in his voice. “Give Hardy a jolt. Now you two slip round the stockade in opposite directions. Have every man stand to his post as quietly as possible and wait for the signal from me. Not a shot, mind, till I fire, and then let them have it. Quick! They’re in the clearing already, if I’m not mistaken.”
When Kenton and Hardy had disappeared down the ladder, Boone took up his rifle and ran his hand over the flint-lock. Satisfied that it was ready for service, he stood it against the wall by his side and peered out of the port-hole. Hardly more than five minutes had elapsed when he imagined that he discerned a dark wall moving towards him. A minute later he was certain. The Indians were about eighty yards away and stealing forward as noiselessly as shadows. Without removing his eyes from the advancing foe, Boone slowly brought his rifle into position and dropped his right cheek upon the stock. When he judged the line of redskins to be fifty yards distant he pressed the trigger.
Boone’s signal shot had hardly sounded when seventy reports rang out almost in a volley. The Indians checked in surprise. Then with a yell they rushed forward, and again seventy trusty guns spoke with tongues of fire. Still the redskins came on, discharging their pieces as they ran. They were within a few paces of the stockade—some, indeed, had reached it—when once more the defenders fired into their ranks. Had they pushed the assault the savages might have carried the fort with their tomahawks, but they checked again and then fell back to reload.
Then occurred one of those strange lulls that commonly happen in fights and even in battles. No movement was detectable on either side and comparative silence prevailed. Suddenly Kenton’s voice was heard serenely singing the lines of a popular ballad of the time:
“If they hang poor Paddy for a thing like that,
Whatever will they do with me?”
“That fellow will sing going to his own funeral,” muttered Boone, but he was pleased to hear the cheery laugh that ran round the stockade in response to Kenton’s song.
Anon the chiefs were heard exhorting their tribesmen to renewed efforts, and soon it was seen that they had kindled a fire. This was far enough back to be out of effective range from the fort. As soon as the flames sprang up, a long line of the redskins filed past the fire and each one of them ignited a resin-soaked torch. The defenders instantly divined the purport of this movement, and realized that they were about to be subjected to one of the most dreaded forms of attack. When employed determinedly, fire was the most effective auxiliary the Indians could enlist. Even though they failed to burn a breach in the defences, they gained the advantage of drawing a number of riflemen from the firing line to the task of fighting the flames.
The garrison had enjoyed but a brief respite when the Indians were again upon them. Just as the first gray tints of dawn appeared in the sky, and before Kenton had finished the third verse of his lyric, the ranks of dusky warriors began to advance in a wide crescent formation calculated to envelop three sides of the stockade. Interspersed through their line were some thirty or forty torch-bearers, who immediately became the marks of the riflemen. Many of the savages carried bundles of sticks and grass to be laid against the walls of the cabins and blockhouses and lighted. Boone was now in the square, where he could best direct operations against this new form of attack.
When they had come within one hundred yards of the palisades the Indians rushed forward with the most unearthly yells and whoops. The efforts of the defenders were chiefly directed towards preventing the men bearing torches and combustibles from approaching near enough to lay the latter or to throw the former on the roofs of the buildings. At the same time the horde of howling redskins had to be held back. Fierce fighting followed along every side of the stockade. Every man strove and strained for dear life. The women worked hard, loading spare rifles, of which there were fortunately a considerable number in hand. Here and there an Indian gained the top of the palisade, when a hand-to-hand struggle with tomahawks ensued. The din of musketry, the cries of the combatants, the howling of dogs, and the bellowing of cattle, created a veritable pandemonium.
Presently it was discovered that the roof of one of the cabins had ignited and was burning fiercely. Kenton and Hardy were the first at the spot.